The Left Hand of Calvus

by L. A. Witt

  “You have,” Drusus says with a half-nod. “But my business with you isn’t complete.”

  “Isn’t fucking my wife enough?”

  “I never touched your wife.”

  “Then what—”

  “Look at my face,” Drusus says through his teeth. “Recognize me?”

  “Of course I do,” Calvus says. “Everyone in Pompeii knows your flesh-mongering face, you—”

  “No, Calvus Laurea.” Drusus steps forward. “Look closer.”

  Calvus draws back slightly, as much as I let him. “You’re a lanista, what more do—”

  “Oh, Jupiter’s balls, you fool. Look closer.” Drusus gestures at his own face. “You don’t recognize me? At all?” His eyes narrow. “You don’t recognize your own flesh and blood?”

  Calvus sucks in a breath. “I don’t . . . you aren’t . . .”

  “I am.”

  The nobleman squares his shoulders. “That’s not possible. You are not my daughter.”

  Leather creaks as Drusus shifts his arms on top of the breastplate. “I’m not your daughter, no. But I am the one you named Statia.”

  “My daughter Statia is dead,” Calvus snarls.

  “And I’m sure you’ve grieved her every day for the last eight years, haven’t you?” Drusus throws back. “Just as Mother did.”

  “Your mother was as much a whore as you—”

  Drusus throws a fist into his father’s face, and I just get the dagger out of the way before Calvus would have impaled himself on it.

  “Don’t speak about my mother that way,” Drusus says through clenched teeth. “She never touched another man but you.”

  Calvus dabs his nose and mouth, then glares at his son. He takes in a breath to speak, but Drusus doesn’t give him the chance.

  “I’m going to ask you once, and only once.” Drusus’s voice is quiet, but dangerous. “Where. Is. My son?”

  Calvus draws back, pressing into the blade in my hand like he’s forgotten it’s there at all. With a satisfying waver in his voice, he says, “I told you everything I know. I sold him to Maharbaal.”

  “And where do I find this Maharbaal?”

  Calvus squirms between his son and my dagger. “I told you! I don’t even know if he’s still in—”

  “Kill him,” Drusus says flippantly.

  I press the blade in harder.

  “Wait!” Calvus tenses. “Wait. Please.”

  Drusus nods toward me, and I take some pressure off the weapon.

  Calvus exhales. “I had Ataiun make sure the boy would be taken away from Pompeii.”

  Drusus’s jaw clenches and his eyebrows lower, but he doesn’t speak.

  “Maharbaal said he’d be taken to Carthage,” Calvus says. “And sold there. That’s all I know, I swear it.”

  Drusus locks eyes with his father. Long, silent heartbeats pass, and still he doesn’t move or speak. Finally, he whispers, “You sold your own grandson.”

  “My—”

  “Save your breath,” Drusus snaps. “I’ve lived my life as a lanista because it was the only way I could survive. My mother—your wife—is dead. And now your own grandson is in a cage somewhere on his way to a life of slavery.”

  Before his father can speak, Drusus waves a hand at me.

  I knock Calvus’s knees out from under him, and he drops onto the floor between me and Drusus. I kneel and bind Calvus’s wrists with a length of cord. Then I stand, and I pull his head back and press the edge of the blade beneath his jaw.

  Drusus leans down, and as he looks Calvus in the eyes, his lip peels back from his teeth. “For all the things you’ve done, Father, may the gods give you tenfold the suffering you’ve inflicted on the rest of us.”

  “Statia—”

  “Statia is dead,” Drusus says. “Just like you should be.”

  He looks past his father and nods at me.

  Calvus tries to speak, but I shove a wadded rag into his mouth. He gags, fighting against his restraints.

  I take the dagger away from his throat and step around him so he’s staring up at me instead of his son. In all my years as a slave and as a fighter, I’ve never before found more satisfaction than I do in the palpable fear in the eyes of Calvus Laurea as I draw back my fist.

  I hit him in the face, and he falls to the side, so I grab the front of his toga and haul him back up on his knees. With a fistful of his toga to steady him, I hit him again. Then again. He groans and gags, and blood bubbles and sprays from his nose. Another close-fisted punch, and his head lolls to one side, his eyes rolling. I wait until he reorients himself and lifts his head, and I draw my fist back again.

  A hand stops my elbow. “Easy, Saevius,” Drusus says softly.

  Calvus stares up at us, dazed and bleeding and so perfectly, beautifully terrified. Just like he deserves to be. The whites of his eyes gleam in the oil lamp’s faint glow. Blood runs down one side of his face and smears of it darken his pristine toga.

  I glance at Drusus. “You sure you want to let him live?”

  Kneeling at my feet, Calvus whimpers like a scared child.

  Drusus nods. “With everything the people of Pompeii are going to hear after the sun comes up? I want him to be alive and well to watch his reputation crumble.”

  I chuckle. “Let’s get out of here, then. He won’t be out long.”

  And still, the fear in the nobleman’s eyes grows.

  Drusus leans down until he’s inches from his father’s bloodied, terrified face. “Never forget this, and never forget my face. Anything happens to my son between now and the day I die, or if he isn’t where you say he is, I will find you, and I will kill you.”

  Calvus stares back, as broken and powerless as he so richly deserves to be, and I doubt he’d be able to speak even if he didn’t have the gag in his mouth.

  Drusus spits in his father’s face. Calvus screws his eyes shut and struggles against his restraints, but he can neither move nor wipe his face. Then Drusus steps out of the way, and I send Calvus crumpling to the ground with one last blow to the side of his head.

  “I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” I say, shaking the pain out of my hand as Calvus lies unconscious at my feet.

  “You’re not the only one,” Drusus says with a soft laugh. “Let’s go. That slaver could be leaving Pompeii any moment.”

  We leave Calvus to sleep in his own blood, and carefully close the door behind us.

  Madam Gelasia looks up as we walk out, but she doesn’t say a word.

  “Now,” Drusus says, sliding his hand into the crook of my elbow as we step out into the night, “we find that damned slaver.”

  Calvus wisely told us correctly, and the slaver’s camp is just outside Pompeii.

  From a small bluff overlooking the camp, Drusus and I watch the flickering fires and patrolling guards.

  “Question is, how do we get Kaeso out?” I scowl at the campsite. “He’s got more guards than your father’s villa.”

  “We should try negotiating first.” Drusus glances at me. “It’s safer that way.”

  “Think it’ll work?”

  He nods. “I know slavers. They’re scum, but they’re businessmen. If we bargain with them for Kaeso rather than take him by force, we’re less likely to get him killed.”

  “You’re certain we have enough money?”

  Drusus laughs dryly. “We have more than enough to get him back and still live well for years.” I couldn’t argue with that. We’d emptied the ludus’s treasury, sparing only enough for each of the men to start their lives along with the emancipation documents Drusus left behind.

  I look out at the campsite again. “I think it’s better I go in and you wait out here,” I say.

  “No,” Drusus says. “I should—”

  “If negotiating doesn’t work, you’re in no condition to fight.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “But given the choice between the two of us, it’s best for Kaeso that you stay alive.”


  Drusus frowns as he looks out at the slaver’s camp.

  “Just wait here.” I turn his face toward me and kiss his forehead. “I’ll get him out.”

  I start to go, but Drusus grabs my wrist. “Wait.”

  I stop, eyebrows up.

  He swallows. “Are you sure you’ll know him when you see him?”

  “I will.” I kiss Drusus on the mouth this time. “Trust me, I’ll know him.”

  “Thank you, Saevius,” he whispers. “You’ve already done far more for me than I’ve had any right to ask, and this is—”

  I silence him with another kiss. “We’ll settle up debts later. After we’ve gotten your son away from this cursed city.”

  Drusus nods, and as he lets me go, he sweeps his tongue across his lower lip. “I’ll set up a campfire.” He gestures behind us. “Out of sight from the camp. I’ll wait for you there.”

  “Good. Hopefully it won’t take long.”

  “Hopefully not.” He kisses me lightly. “Gods be with you.”

  After one last, brief kiss, we separate, and I approach the slaver’s camp.

  “You there!” A guard barks, readying his spear. “Stop right there.”

  “I’m here to see Maharbaal,” I say calmly.

  “Maharbaal, eh?” He doesn’t lower his weapon. “Then come in the daylight like everyone else.”

  “I don’t have time to wait until sunrise. Let me speak to him, and I’ll be on my way.”

  He regards me silently for a moment, then gestures sharply with his weapon. “Get in here, then.” He leads me to a heavily guarded tent at the center of the campsite, and shoves me unceremoniously through the flap.

  The slaver is a giant of a man, probably at least a head taller than me and definitely dangerously broader in the shoulders. He sits on a pile of furs with two guards looming in the shadows behind him, and as he lowers his cup, his glare suggests I’m not welcome.

  “Pol! What do you want?” he snarls. “I don’t do business in the dead of night.”

  “I want to buy a slave from you,” I say quickly.

  His expression doesn’t change. “I told you. I don’t—”

  “A specific slave.”

  His eyebrows lower over his dark eyes. “Which slave?”

  “You bought a boy in Pompeii,” I say, “from a nobleman. Calvus Laurea.”

  The slaver furrows his brow, but then shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t keep records?” I glare down at him. “What slaver doesn’t keep records of what he buys and from whom?”

  “Oh, I keep records.” He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. “But they’re none of your concern.”

  “I’m not here to play games. I want the boy.”

  “What boy?”

  “The boy you bought from Calvus Laurea. I know you have him, so let’s not—”

  “Oh, I have him,” the slaver says, but he doesn’t budge. “It’s just that part of the arrangement is that I don’t sell the boy until I’ve taken him far from Pompeii.” He smirks. “And I’m not one to break deals with men who frequently put money into my coin purse.”

  I step closer and lower my voice. “You have a choice. You can either sell the boy to me, or I will steal him along with any other slave within—”

  The slaver leaps to his feet and lunges at me. He grabs the front of my tunic. “You want your throat cut, you—”

  He stops when I press the edge of a blade against his gut. The pair of guards come out of the shadows, weapons at the ready, but Maharbaal puts up a hand. They stop, but don’t back off.

  “I wasn’t finished,” I growl. “I’ll free the boy, every other slave nearby, and cut the throat of any man who tries to stop me.” I narrow my eyes. “Including you.”

  He opens his mouth to speak, but I press the dagger harder, just keeping it from breaking his flesh.

  “Your choice, slaver,” I say quietly. “I buy the boy, or I steal him.” I pause. “And don’t assume killing me will prevent him and all the others from being stolen, because I assure you, I am not working alone.”

  His lip curls into a snarl. Then he loosens his grasp on my tunic. “Five hundred sestertii.”

  I blink. “For a young boy?”

  The snarl turns into a grin. “You want him? You pay my price for him.”

  “I have two hundred,” I reply.

  He shrugs. “No boy, then.”

  I clench my teeth. “That’s many times what you paid for him, and what you’ll sell him for in Carthage. I’ll give you all the coin I have with me, you’ll make a tremendous profit, and I won’t give you or your camp any further trouble.”

  Maharbaal silently considers my offer. Then he nods. “All right, then. Two hundred sestertii.” He holds out his hand.

  I don’t move. “I want to see him first. He’d best be alive, well, and not branded.”

  The slaver sighs impatiently.

  “You’re getting two hundred sestertii for the boy,” I snap. “I don’t part with my money until I’m certain I’m getting what I’ve paid for.”

  “Very well.” He turns his head and barks, “Akbar.” One of the soldiers steps into the tent. Maharbaal gestures past him. “Get the servant boy. The one that noble fool sold us this morning.”

  The soldier replies something in a language I don’t understand, and leaves. When he returns just moments later, he has a young boy with him, and I’d know that face anywhere. He looks up at me with all too familiar blue eyes, and draws back in fear.

  “Kaeso?” I whisper.

  He jumps. Then nods.

  I beckon for him to come closer.

  Maharbaal grabs Kaeso’s shoulder. “Not yet. Where’s my money?”

  “Where’s my guarantee you won’t harm the boy once you have the money?”

  Kaeso’s eyes widen. The slaver doesn’t release him.

  “Prove you have the money,” he growls.

  “It’s all right here.” I pull out the coin purse and hold it up. “Let the boy go.”

  “Akbar.” Maharbaal gestures sharply at me. “Take the money.”

  Akbar reaches for it, but I pull it away.

  “Let’s be clear,” I say. “The boy is so much as scratched, and I will see to it every throat in this camp is open before dawn.”

  “I’m a businessman,” Maharbaal says. “Not a thief. Give him the money.”

  Without taking my eyes off Maharbaal, I hand the coin purse to Akbar. As soon as my hand is relieved of the weight of the coins, my heart beats faster.

  “Now let him go,” I demand.

  Maharbaal doesn’t. He looks at Akbar, who opens the coin purse and riffles through it.

  Finally, Akbar nods. “It’s here. All of it.”

  Maharbaal shoves Kaeso toward me. “Get out of here. Both of you.”

  I squat down to Kaeso’s level and put a hand on his shoulder. My gods, if ever I’d had reason to doubt Kaeso’s parentage, those doubts are gone now. The blue eyes, the features that time has already begun to sharpen; this is unmistakably the son of Drusus.

  “Are you all right?” I ask. “Have they harmed you?”

  He doesn’t speak, just shakes his head vigorously.

  “Thank the gods,” I whisper, and beckon to him. “Come on. Let me get you out of here.”

  Kaeso balks. “Are you taking me back to Grandfather? I don’t want to go—”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  I take Kaeso by the hand and lead him out of the tent and into the heavy heat of the night.

  “Where are we going?” Kaeso asks as we head toward the edge of the camp.

  “Somewhere safe.” I glance around and listen for anyone who might try to stop us on our way out.

  Kaeso doesn’t question me further. He just holds my hand a little tighter.

  A flickering glow comes into view, and I walk faster. From the other side of the tiny campfire, Drusus stands, his eyes wide in the low light, and I can tell from here he’s h
olding his breath.

  Kaeso stops. Then gasps. “Drusus?”

  “Kaeso.” Drusus releases a breath. “Oh, thank the gods.”

  The boy runs toward him, and Drusus opens his arms for his son. Kaeso throws his arms around Drusus, who winces painfully and sucks in a breath, but he doesn’t push the boy away. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, just closes his eyes and holds Kaeso tightly against him.

  Then he releases him and draws back, looking him up and down. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

  “They didn’t hurt me.” Kaeso’s expression falls, and his eyes well up. “But Nan is dead.”

  Drusus smooths the boy’s hair. “I know she is.”

  I touch Drusus’s shoulder. “We need to get away from Pompeii. The whole city’s going to be looking for us at sunrise.”

  “Right.” Drusus stands and takes his son’s hand. “We’d better get moving.”

  We creep through the darkness and far away from the city. On exhausted legs—and I can only imagine the pain Drusus is in, but he refuses to stop even when every step has him cursing and gritting his teeth—we follow one of the winding roads that leads past the farmlands and into the hills outside Pompeii.

  It’s nearly dawn when we finally stop to rest. Far off the road, hidden in a cave, the three of us collapse.

  I awaken first, sitting up gingerly. My body, especially the tender flesh that’s trying to heal across my scourged back, protests every motion. The sun has barely risen, and my bones ache with fatigue, but we can’t risk staying here long.

  Beside me, Drusus has his uninjured arm around Kaeso, the boy’s small frame huddled close with his head under Drusus’s chin.

  Drusus’s eyes flutter, and he shifts a little, wincing and sucking in a breath.

  “You all right?” I ask.

  He nods. “Nothing that won’t heal. I’ve had worse.” He grins wryly. “I’m sure you have too.”

  Chuckling, I nod. “Probably, yes.”

  He looks down at his son, and tenderly runs his fingers through the sleeping boy’s hair. “Thank you, Saevius,” he whispers. He lifts his gaze. “I’ll be indebted to you as long as I live.”

  I smile. “You gave me my freedom. I can’t ask for much more than that.”

  He returns the smile, but says nothing.