A Gladiator's Tale

by Ashley Gardner

  “In truth, I am seeking another gladiator,” I said in a quiet voice. “I heard he might be here.”

  “The one called Herakles? He is indeed within. The lady of the house claimed he had come to entertain guests, but I believe he entertains her personally.” His grin told me what he thought of the woman’s flimsy deception.

  I deflated in relief. At least I wouldn’t find Herakles cut to pieces and left stacked in an alley.

  “I need to speak to him.”

  Livius’s interest grew. “I admit I am curious as to why. As you will never gain admittance without an invitation, I will escort you inside.”

  I was too eager to see Herakles to question his generosity. “Good of you.”

  “Not at all. You did me a good turn, and I told you I was happy to repay you.”

  Livius jerked his chin at his guards, who turned without expression. Two preceded him through the gate, and the third waited for him to walk ahead of him.

  I entered with Livius—not much else I could do.

  The gate led to a long walkway lined with marble columns interspersed with carefully trained and pruned trees. Shrubs separated the path from beds on either side of it, where rich earth had been turned, waiting for the nights to grow warmer before planting began.

  We tramped along, our way paved with mosaics depicting garden scenes and an inevitable one of Bacchus on a chariot with his cornucopia of abundance, amphorae of flowing wine, and scantily clad women dancing around him.

  The villa, encircled by the garden, which itself was enclosed by walls except on the river side, rose before us. Two great doors, painted red and gilded, stood open to the atrium.

  The doorman was more watchful than many, and he came to attention as Livius and I strode to him.

  “Sir.” The door slave bowed low then squared his shoulders under a very white linen tunic.

  “Tell your mistress I wish to ask her about one final thing.” Livius spoke easily, without haste. A coin appeared in his hand, though I had not seen him reach into a pouch for it.

  The doorman accepted the coin with a humble bow of his head. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I will inquire, sir.”

  Livius took no notice of his obsequiousness. He strolled into the atrium as the doorman dashed off, a room three times the size of the entire apartment Cassia and I lived in.

  In the middle of this atrium was the impluvium, the square basin that caught rainwater. This one had been fitted with a burbling fountain in the form of a maiden pouring water from a jar, her long hair spilling over one bared breast.

  The house rose two stories above me, a balcony encircling the atrium, its balustrade made of elegantly carved wood.

  The walls on the ground floor held vividly colored murals of gardens with elegant people wandering through them, or hunting scenes with lifelike deer running from men with bows. Another depicted a man and woman gazing longingly at each other through a hole in a garden wall.

  “Pyramus and Thisbe,” Livius said at my elbow. “They fell in love speaking to each other through a crack in the wall. Publius Ovidius Naso told the tale, which I read as an incorrigible youth. The two die tragically, of course, as in any good love story.”

  I turned to him quizzically, ready to ask him why tragic death made any story good, when the doorman returned and signaled us to follow.

  He led us through a pedimented doorway into a long corridor. To our left was an enclosed peristyle garden with another fountain, this one oblong, with Neptune in his chariot racing through it.

  To the right was a stairway leading to the next floor, cool darkness above. Under the stairs was a narrow passage that probably led to the servants’ area and the kitchens. I thought I saw a slim figure in a long tunic in the shadows, but I could not be certain.

  The doorman escorted us through an open doorway at the end of this hall to the main gardens. The first terrace, balustraded, held a large mosaic floor and a swath of trees and greenery at either end. The next terrace, down a shallow flight of stairs, sported fountains amidst blocks of hedges. To the right of the terraces was a vineyard, the bare vines waiting for spring.

  Before us, the sparkling river wound lazily around the hills of Rome. From here I could see the stables and practice area for the chariot teams on the other side of the Tiber with the round swell of the Theatre of Pompey in the distance.

  On the second terrace, a woman reclined in an alcove set into the wall that formed the upper terrace. Red and gold hangings lined the niche, ready to be pulled closed against wind or chill.

  The alcove held three couches, the middle one occupied by the woman. Herakles lounged on the couch to her right, his torso positioned elegantly, one knee drawn up, on which he rested a negligent arm. He reminded me of a resting leopard, a beautiful animal that could in a moment change into a wild and unpredictable predator.

  On the couch on the lady’s left was Nonus Marcianus. He held a gold cup between his slim hands and wore his usual jovial expression.

  “I have indeed patched him up several times,” Marcianus was saying with a nod at Herakles. “That scar across his forearm—I had to cut into it to set the bone and align the ligaments, and then sew it back up again.”

  Herakles obligingly turned his arm over to show a sharp white line across his inner arm.

  “Did he scream?” the lady, who must be Domitiana Sabinus, asked in curiosity. No eagerness, just interest.

  “Not so much screamed as cursed and shouted at me, threatening to kill me and all my progeny.” Marcianus chuckled. “Of course, most of what he said was in whatever tongue they speak in Pannonia, so I have no idea what plagues he willed to rain down upon me.”

  “That’s my brave boy,” Domitiana said, drawing a languid hand across Herakles’s thigh.

  She was middle-aged, perhaps in her forties, but she’d kept herself youthfully slim, her face unlined, unless the lines were hidden by clever cosmetics. She wore a wig of blond curls carefully styled, done artfully enough that it looked natural.

  “I was in much pain,” Herakles spoke in a deep voice, his accent just thick enough to reveal he came from a land far away yet not so thick that his paramour would have difficulty understanding him. “I cannot feel shame for berating Marcianus. I am now grateful.” He made a seated bow to Marcianus that was anything but humble.

  Domitiana caught sight of her servant and then Livius with me behind him. She straightened her stola, which was of shimmering red silk.

  “Sextus Livius, you’ve returned,” she said brightly. “Bringing me another gladiator?” She regarded me with dark eyes that were not as hard as Chryseis’s, but nowhere near as friendly as those of Merope and her sister. “You are Leonidas the Spartan, are you not? Were, I should say.”

  I bowed, hoping I looked more polite than Herakles.

  “I apologize for the intrusion,” Livius said smoothly. It was clear Domitiana did not mind—Livius was young, attractive, and wealthy. “We have need of Herakles.”

  “Oh, do you? I would insist on knowing the reason, but it is not my business.” Domitiana flashed a smile that made her appear years younger. “Very well, Herakles, you may go. Remember, my banquet is two days before the Ides. I will speak to Aemilianus if he is too stubborn to let you come.”

  She meant she’d pay Aemil, if necessary, to allow Herakles to attend her.

  Domitiana waved a slim hand, gold and gemstones flashing in the sunlight. “It was good to meet you Nonus Marcianus. Tell my majordomo to give you a token on the way out.”

  Marcianus rose as Herakles heaved himself reluctantly from the couch. “No need for that, your ladyship,” Marcianus said.

  “Nonsense. I bleated on to you about my digestion, and you are a professional physician. It is only right I pay a fee for your time. Good day to you.”

  She snapped her fingers. Three servants materialized from the upper terrace to bring her wine, adjust a cushion, and hold out scented water so she could bathe her hands. Domitiana reclined more deeply on her sofa
and closed her eyes, finished with us.

  A fourth servant led us away as the doorman had scurried back to his duties. I glanced at the view as we climbed to the higher terrace, marveling that distance could reduce the dirt and stink of Rome to a shimmering, hazy beauty.

  None of us spoke as we followed the servant back into the house past the peristyle garden, and into the atrium. There the servant spoke quietly to a tall, thin man who handed Marcianus a pouch that clinked. Marcianus murmured his thanks and pocketed the coins.

  Once the servant had ushered us to the dusty path outside the villa and pulled the gate closed, Herakles, tall with golden brown hair and hazel eyes, scowled at me.

  “Thanks to you, Leonidas, I must trade a soft pallet for a hard slab. What are you doing here?”

  I did not want to discuss Ajax on the open path with others passing, but Marcianus, his countenance serious, faced Herakles.

  “There is danger about,” he said. “You need to be at the ludus.”

  “What danger?” Herakles demanded.

  “Ajax is dead,” Marcianus said flatly. “But this is not the place to talk about it.”

  He started along the path, leaving Herakles and Livius stunned behind him. I strode after Marcianus.

  “Cassia. We can’t leave her.”

  “And we will not. She will appear about … here.” Marcianus halted next to a nondescript door in the villa’s outer wall.

  Not a moment later, the door creaked, and Cassia ducked out, settling her cloak over her head.

  “I think you should explain, Leonidas.” Livius had reached us, his bodyguards hanging back at a flick of his hand.

  Herakles gathered close to Livius, his expression sour. There was nothing for it. In quiet tones, I told them what had happened, Marcianus adding details. Cassia kept a fold of her cloak over her face and said nothing.

  Herakles’s jaw had gone slack by the time I finished. “Jupiter and Minerva. What sorcery is this?”

  I hadn’t thought of it until Herakles said the words, but it was true that the way Ajax had been killed could have been the result of a gruesome spell.

  “Sorcery or madness,” Livius said.

  Marcianus looked him up and down. “May I inquire who you are, sir? You came to call upon Domitiana Sabinus, but I was not certain of your name.”

  “This is Sextus Livius,” I broke in before Livius could answer. “A friend.”

  I was not certain Livius would appreciate me calling him a friend, but I did not know how to account for him. Very, very powerful and wealthy secret son of a man I once did business with seemed an inadequate explanation.

  Livius did not dispute the label. “I am a freedman who has been extraordinarily lucky.”

  “And I am Nonus Marcianus, medicus.”

  Livius gave him a nod that was more of a bow. “I am honored, sir.”

  Marcianus as an Equestrian outranked a freedman many times over. Livius, no matter how much money he acquired, could never hold high office or marry into certain classes or be considered anything but a former slave. Yet Livius wore more gold on his wrists than Marcianus would make in a year, even from patching up expensive gladiators.

  Herakles shifted impatiently. “Can we return to Ajax being cut up like firewood? You said he’d supped with a wealthy man. One like him?” He glared at Livius in suspicion. “It would be just like a Roman dog to gut one of my countrymen.”

  “Or your lady of the villa did,” I told him.

  Herakles snorted. “Domitiana? She wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’d fear to mar her manicure.”

  “Wealthy women can hire men to do the difficult deeds for them,” Marcianus pointed out. “I suggest we discuss it elsewhere rather than beside her door.”

  “Agreed.” Livius gestured us onward. “I will lend myself and my bodyguards to escort you to the gate of your ludus. You will be safe with them.”

  “Possibly Ajax was told the same thing,” Herakles muttered, but he started with us along the path southward toward the ludus.

  I let the bodyguards pass me as they surrounded Livius, Herakles, and Marcianus. Cassia hesitated as well until we were a dozen or so paces behind the others.

  “Were you all right in there?” I asked her.

  I could see only Cassia’s eyes in the folds of her cloak, but they crinkled as though she smiled. “Yes, indeed. As I said, I know some of her servants well. They will not mention my name to her.”

  “You are very certain,” I stated.

  Cassia slowed her pace. “Do you have friends you trust beyond logic? Nonus Marcianus, for instance.”

  “Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. I would trust Marcianus with my life and had several times. In a way, I trusted Aemil, though I knew he was self-serving. But he was honest.

  “These are people like that,” she said. “I’ve known them most of my life.”

  “They told you much?”

  “All about Domitiana Sabinus and Herakles, yes. I will tell you more when we are private. Did you find Rufus?”

  “No.” One of the guards glanced over his shoulder at us and slowed his pace, and I gave Cassia a cautioning glance. “When we are home.”

  Cassia agreed, and we caught up to the party.

  Septimius stood at the gate again this afternoon. He straightened quickly when he saw us coming, then put his hand on his sword, glower in place at the bodyguards and the man they surrounded.

  Marcianus stepped in front of the guards. “Let us in, Septimius, there’s a good fellow. I will vouch for Livius and his entourage.”

  Aemil was already jerking open the gate. “Herakles,” he bellowed. “Thank all the gods. In your cell—now—or feel my wrath. Leonidas, why did you bring a mob with you? Did you find Rufus?”

  Shaking my head, I said, “I spoke to his wife and his mistresses then searched where I could on this side of the river, but there is no sign of him.”

  Aemil let out a curse in his Gallic language. “At least you found one of the strays. What about Regulus? Where in Hades is he?”

  “I haven’t seen him either.”

  Aemil scowled at me as though I were to blame for his troubles as Herakles slid through the gate and strolled toward the arched line of cells.

  “Can I help?” Livius asked, his voice full of smooth strength.

  “You can indeed,” Marcianus answered before Aemil could. “I have a cart to bring here and I could use the assistance.”

  He meant for Ajax’s body. I’d planned to offer to help but Livius’s guards would be able to do the job swiftly.

  “I would be happy to,” Livius said. “If I learn anything about this horrible business or find what has become of the other two men, I will send word to you, Leonidas.”

  We inclined our heads cordially at each other. Livius even nodded to Cassia, whom he’d met in our rooms at the end of our last adventure. Then he and Marcianus moved off toward the Aventine, the guards closing in around them.

  I turned back to Aemil. Herakles’s mention of sorcery had stirred an idea. “Do you know if you’ve been cursed? Or maybe the ludus itself has?”

  Aemil folded his thick arms. “I thought of that this morning. I’ve looked for scrolls, but found nothing, though we haven’t had time to make a thorough search yet.”

  Anyone could pay a priest or a vendor of such things for a curse—they supplied the leather or papyrus scroll, stylus, and the words of the incantation, assuring the purchaser that the magic would work if they followed a certain formula.

  The curses weren’t always successful—if the incantation was done wrong, or the god called upon wasn’t pleased, nothing might happen. But many families had been ruined or businesses failed because of curses.

  “Go away, Leonidas.” Aemil rubbed his forehead, drawing his broad hand down to his chin. “Thank you for finding that vermin, Herakles. Now if we can lay hands on Rufus and the blasted Regulus, so much the better.”

  He turned away without a good-bye, striding toward the cells, chiv
ying men with his shouts.

  Cassia and I were left relatively alone. “Should we retreat or continue searching?” she asked.

  I thought of the two young women and their cousin Gaius who vowed to leave no stone unturned until they found Rufus. I had the feeling they could search the Transtiberim better than we could.

  As for Regulus …

  A chill touched me when I thought of him, but at the same time, I didn’t really believe anyone would be able to kill him. Ajax could have been lured to his banquet, promised riches, or patronage, or sex. Seduced. Regulus never would be. He was suspicious of everyone and liked to have the upper hand in any situation. An assassin would more likely be laid low by Regulus than he by him.

  “Home for now,” I told Cassia. “You can write down all we’ve learned.”

  Her eyes crinkled again.

  “Leonidas.”

  Herakles approached from the cells on swift feet, glancing over his shoulder, but Aemil could be heard berating unfortunate men in the far wing.

  “You,” Herakles barked at Cassia. “Wait outside.”

  Cassia did not move until I gestured to her. She bowed her head and slipped out the gate, though she was anything but meek.

  I braced myself for Herakles to berate me once more for wresting him from his cushy accommodations, but he put his hand on my shoulder and turned me aside.

  “I’d watch that slave of yours.” His hazel eyes held vicious glee. “She’s in thick with Domitiana’s menials. One of them is her lover.”

  Chapter 7

  I regarded Herakles stonily. He was inebriated from whatever wine he’d imbibed at the villa and angry at me for bringing him to the ludus to face Aemil’s wrath. My skepticism must have been obvious, because Herakles leaned closer, his breath pungent.

  “I saw them together,” he said with conviction. “She’s sleeping away, Leonidas. With a spindly nobody. I’d take a strap to her.”

  With that, he sent me a derisive sneer and sprinted back to the cells.

  I exited through the gate, answering Septimius’s farewell. Cassia hovered a few paces down the road, having stepped against the wall to stay out of the way of passers-by. No one paid much attention to her, an unmoving slave in a plain cloak.