A Gladiator's Tale

by Ashley Gardner

  The triclinium’s walls were painted with floor-to-ceiling murals, one on my left depicting maidens dancing in a landscape that resembled the terraced gardens outside the house. Satyrs cavorted near the ladies, sending them lascivious leers.

  The center wall showed a long table laden with food, from whole fish to overflowing baskets of grapes and pomegranates, heaps of bread, and glasses of wine. One glass had overturned, sending droplets of purple liquid to the floor. Under the table, a cat gnawed on fish bones.

  The right wall portrayed a beautiful woman in diaphanous silk reclining on a couch, one breast visible through her nearly transparent stola. A naked man with a large phallus knelt at her feet, licking the inside of her bared leg.

  I’d seen far more erotic wall paintings and floor mosaics at other villas I’d visited, but I wondered if the lady of the house had commissioned it after her husband had died, or if he’d ordered the painting himself.

  Several low, small tables surrounded on three sides by a dining couch took up most of the room. Domitiana, our hostess, lounged on one end of the couch, very much like the painted lady behind her did, except that while her thin blue silk stola clung to her every curve, it covered her fully. Domitiana’s only jewelry was a pair of delicate earrings of three gold hoops studded with precious stones, and her wig tonight was a dark brown affair of simple curls.

  Possibly she’d chosen modest attire because another woman, a younger version of herself, lazed on the couch on the opposite side of the table. I concluded that this was Domitiana’s daughter, Severina. I’d only glimpsed her at the baths, and now I could view her fully.

  She was in her very early twenties, I’d guess, with black hair that flowed in artfully arranged locks to the folds of her red silk stola. The fibulae that clasped the stola at her shoulders were beaten gold in the shape of bees, and a strip of gold and green cloth decorated her neckline. Her feet, perched on the couch, were shod in thin gilded sandals, and earrings similar to Domitiana’s hung from her ears.

  Herakles and I were presented by the doorman, but we halted in the middle of the room, not invited to sit, while the two women looked us over. We both wore clean tunics and sandals, our skin scraped and washed at the baths. I’d visited my barber today and had a smooth face and hair trimmed back to my scalp.

  Severina’s eyes brightened as she took me in, and she pointed a long finger at me. “I saw you. At the baths on the Quirinal.”

  I acknowledged this with a nod. I wouldn’t speak unless instructed to.

  “Sit.” Domitiana waved her hand at the expanse of couch next to her. “Drink, my friends.”

  Herakles moved first, edging me out so he could recline closest to Domitiana. That left me to stretch out on the cushions nearest Severina.

  Cups of beaten gold, filled with dark wine, reposed on the tables, well within reach. Herakles lifted one, grinned at Domitiana, and slurped.

  I took a more hesitant sip of mine, but I tasted only wine, rich and full. An expensive vintage.

  No others were joining us, I saw. Servants materialized to set dishes on the tables our couches surrounded, moving silently and efficiently before they vanished again.

  I’d been invited to such meals before. Most often the triclinium would be full, with a dozen or more guests. I’d either be asked to join the meal, or I’d sit waiting until they wanted me to show off my fighting moves or talk about bouts. Sometimes guests would be cajoled by their friends into sparring with me—I’d judge the temperament of the crowd before deciding whether to gently best my opponent or pretend to let him defeat me.

  Occasionally I was invited to dine with women alone—though not always for copulation—as we had been tonight.

  Bodyguards lurked in the shadows in case Herakles or I decided to rob the house or ravish the two ladies without their permission. One I recognized as Severina’s, the same who’d given me a scowl at the baths. None of them had overly large noses or thick dark hair.

  Musicians stationed outside the room began to play as the meal was served, sweet strains wafting out of the darkness. The first course consisted of flatbreads and cheese alongside small eggs, boiled and opened, the yolks mixed with herbs and salt. The food was elegant and tasty but nothing like the overly exotic meals Marcianus had found in Ajax’s and Rufus’s stomachs.

  Next came platters of meat formed into balls and stuffed with anchovies; roasted pork; fish stuffed with breadcrumbs; and several different kinds of sausages. I disliked to eat much meat, but I dutifully chewed a few mouthfuls while Herakles happily gorged himself.

  While we ate, Domitiana kept up a steady chatter with Severina about people they knew and what they’d each done during the week. Domitiana invited our opinions from time to time, while Severina only watched us with a secret smile as she replied to her mother.

  The food continued, as did the wine. Once the main course was disposed of, servants brought out sweets, more to my liking. Fried bits of pastry dough dipped in honey covered the platters, surrounded by apricots, walnuts, almonds, pomegranates, grapes, and other fruits depicted in the mural above me.

  With the dessert came the doorman announcing a stooped man in a toga.

  “Tertius Vestalis Felix,” the doorman intoned.

  I studied Severina’s husband as I chewed a handful of walnuts. He’d been a senator and a consul, I recalled Cassia telling me, and then a proconsul of a colony on the edges of the empire. Retired now, he had gray hair, a lined face, and an expression of resignation.

  Severina’s smile never wavered as she rose. “I am honored, husband.”

  Domitiana made room on her end of the sofa. “Dear son-in-law. Come and sit by me.”

  The man walked slowly to Domitiana and settled himself on the couch. He seemed in no way dismayed or unhappy that two gladiators reposed next to his wife and mother-in-law. Herakles drained another cup and thunked it to the table as a servant darted forward with wine for the older man.

  Severina reclined again, reaching for an apricot. She lifted it to her mouth and ate it with slow sensuality, but her husband only sipped wine and turned to answer a question from Domitiana.

  He was deferential to Domitiana and she to him, though as a paterfamilias and former senator, Vestalis had no need to be so amenable. He could, within his rights, grab his wife and haul her home from this lewd entertainment, and beat her until she begged for mercy. A paterfamilias had the power of life or death over anyone in his household.

  Vestalis spoke with Domitiana and paid his wife no attention at all.

  Severina, therefore, turned her entire focus on me. She rested her hand on my scarred arm.

  “I have so enjoyed meeting you, Leonidas. You must come to my house for a feast.” She leaned to me to whisper under cover of the music. “A much better one than this. My mother has forgotten how to be indulgent.”

  I glanced at Vestalis, who was deep in discussion with Domitiana about a proposed tax being debated by the senate. Herakles, annoyed at being shut out, moved restlessly and emitted a loud belch.

  Severina tightened her grip, her pointed nails creasing my flesh. “Never mind my husband. He lets me do as I please. Say you’ll come. I’ll pay that stingy old Aemilianus plenty for you. I don’t care.”

  “I no longer fight for the ludus,” I said. “I’m a libertus.”

  Severina’s mouth quirked into a cold smile. “All the better.” She dragged a nail across my forearm hard enough to break the skin then lifted her finger to her mouth and licked it.

  Her eyes were bright and glittering, lined with kohl, her cheeks touched with rouge. The coloring on her mouth had been enhanced by the blood-red wine.

  A hunger lurked inside her, I sensed, one she barely kept contained. I’d been the guest of a number of women who’d wanted to be bedded by a gladiator—eager wives of patricians, Equestrians, or plebs, who believed they wanted to make themselves vulnerable to my strength. It excited them.

  I saw that in Severina, but something more, something predat
ory.

  The wine I’d drunk suddenly tasted sour. Was she truly the hunter of Ajax and Rufus—had she lured them to her and enjoyed watching them be killed? Conquering the strongest and ablest fighters in Rome?

  I could discover this by accepting her offer, however dangerous it was. If she proved simply to be a woman who wanted to sate herself with novelty, then I would leave her and seek the murderer elsewhere. But if the slayings had happened at her home, then I would expose her and leave her to Nero’s mercy.

  I leaned to Severina, keeping my voice low. “You humble me with your invitation, lady. I will accept.”

  “Good.” Severina’s smile deepened as she lifted her wine. “Mother, why don’t we have our guests demonstrate their fighting skills? Leonidas has been given the rudis, and we won’t see him fight in the amphitheaters any longer.”

  Domitiana beamed at her daughter. “An excellent suggestion. Herakles, Leonidas … please.” She waved a hand to the open space in front of the tables.

  The exchange between the two women emerged like lines spoken in a play. They’d rehearsed this, had probably mouthed a similar request many times before.

  I rose, knowing I wouldn’t be allowed to refuse. I put aside my wine and joined Herakles, who’d jumped readily to his feet, moving to the area cleared for us.

  One of the hovering servants handed me a wooden sword and a small shield, and another brought Herakles a net. He smiled as he tested it—the weight must be to his liking.

  Instead of a spear, he was given a long pole with no point. No one was meant to die in this bout, I understood, but we could batter each other with the blunt weapons for our watchers’ amusement.

  Herakles was a talented retiarius. He had a wicked hand with his net, which could entrap and render an opponent helpless while Herakles finished him off with a swift jab of his spear. In earlier days certain gladiators would only fight certain others—a retiarius against a myrmillo, for instance—but the lines had blurred now, and the audience was happy to watch any pairing.

  I would have to keep away from the strangling lines of the heavy net—once I was tangled in it, I’d be hard-pressed to defend myself. I’d only been felled by a net once, managing to roll free because the net had been torn and the retiarius who’d thrown it hadn’t used his advantage quickly enough.

  Domitiana acted as referee, holding up her hand and saying in a loud, clear voice, “Let the game commence.”

  “The prizes are worth it,” Herakles told me, even as he began to glide around me.

  I held my sword and shield ready. The way to win against Herakles was to put myself behind him before he could turn, or make him throw the net and miss me. Once the net was gone, I could deflect or break his spear and bring him down.

  Herakles was too experienced to throw early. He stalked me on light feet while I backed away, watching for my opening. The wooden shield had a point on it, with which I could catch the net and fling it away if I could. However, the shield could also snag the net and trap my arm.

  Herakles grinned, his light hair gleaming in the candlelight. I kept my face straight, concentrating.

  It didn’t matter who won this bout. Domitiana would take Herakles to bed with her this night, and I would depart with Cassia and go home. I had nothing to win, and nothing to lose.

  As soon as I held the sword and shield, however, my training took over, and the fighting man I’d once been stepped forth.

  I saw, not the dining room with its decadent wall paintings of food and sensuality, but the spear and net coming at me in a vast arena. I felt the sand grating beneath my bare feet, smelled the blood and sweat of those who’d fought and died in earlier matches.

  My bouts usually were the last of the day, the populace of Rome on their feet in the Circus Gai or the Saepta Julia, chanting for Leonidas the Spartan to win once again.

  Herakles, with his maniacal smile, wanted to best the champion.

  I had an advantage tonight, no helmet. The bronze helmet that protected my head from blows also limited my eyesight. I had to keep the retiarius in front of me at all times or figure out where he was by sound and the change in the air at my back.

  Tonight, I could turn my head and keep him in sight.

  Herakles likewise was unhampered by arm guards or heavy leg greaves. He danced sideways on the balls of his feet, sizing up his opening, enjoying himself.

  I moved out of his way without running, slowly drawing him to me. Herakles watched me carefully, not falling into little traps I set that would bring him too close to me to use the net.

  He lunged abruptly, and I just as quickly sidestepped, dancing out of the way. At the last moment, Herakles stopped himself from throwing the net, knowing it would be a wasted toss.

  The two ladies gasped and laughed, beating the table to show their appreciation. This became the noise of the crowd as I fought for my life.

  My heart hadn’t been in my finals bouts—I’d long grown weary of the life, fighting only because I had no choice. Even so, I’d won every time. My body had become a machine as mindless as the cranes that lifted massive stones onto new wings of Nero’s domus. Once the machine was set in motion, it operated with grim efficiency.

  Herakles wanted me to let him win, to impress his lady, and I could have. But my body and my training refused.

  Pretending to retreat, I led Herakles quickly across the small floor, my feet brushing a mosaic of nymphs reclining at a fountain. I paused for a moment near a corner of the wall, as though pinned there, out of breath, and Herakles, with a triumphant expression, threw the net.

  It hit empty air. As soon as I saw his wrist bend for the throw, I jumped a length sideways, the heavy net brushing my foot as it fell.

  I shifted my weight so the cords wouldn’t trip me and charged Herakles. He desperately brought up his spear, trying to make me impale myself with it, but I whirled past the spear and spun behind him, knocking my shield hard against his hand as I went. Herakles’s weapon wavered, and then I rammed into him with my entire body.

  As he staggered, I threw down my shield, grabbed Herakles’s head with my free hand, and shoved my sword against his throat. He could do nothing but try to hit me with the side of his spear.

  I bore down on his throat, cutting off his air. “Yield?”

  Herakles choked out a foul word, eyes full of rage.

  “Shall we grant him mercy?” Severina asked in delight.

  “He will have to ask for it,” Domitiana observed. Her voice was calm, as though she had no interest in whether her lover lived or died.

  Herakles snarled, but he held up his forefinger, the signal that he wished to stop the fight and beg for clemency.

  I waited, Herakles dragging in strangled breaths. In this room, the two ladies and Vestalis were the sponsors of the games, with the power of life or death over us. Domitiana thoughtfully chewed on a grape.

  “I suppose we could let him live.” She finished her grape as her daughter laughed.

  “Mitte!” Severina called. Spare him!

  Herakles continued to growl, furious with me for besting him. I glanced at Severina’s husband, but the man had slumped down on the couch, head on his chest, eyes closed. He’d nodded off while Herakles and I battled in front of him to the death.

  Herakles did not lose his anger at me until Domitiana took him to her side and pretended to fuss over his wounded body. His next look at me was smug, as though he considered this a victory.

  Tertius Vestalis snorted awake, blinked at the room, then rose and wandered out. Severina beckoned me to her, but a manservant appeared and deferentially whispered a message to her before I could reach her.

  Severina screamed through her teeth and slapped the manservant hard. He came up, the red imprint of her hand on his face, bowed, and fled.

  “My tiresome husband needs assistance home,” Severina snapped at me. “Or so he says. He is only trying to prove he has power over me. Stupid old fool.” A maid hurried to Severina’s side and helped her to her f
eet, straightening her stola until Severina pushed her away.

  Domitiana peered up from where Herakles lay with his head on her chest. “And you will be a dutiful wife and go to him. Good night to you, daughter.”

  Severina glowered at her mother but conceded to let her maid wrap a palla around her. Without returning the good night or saying a word to me, she swept from the room, the maid rushing after her.

  Domitiana returned her attention to Herakles. He’d snuggled in closer, ever so slowly and subtly twining himself around her.

  No one paid any heed to me. I could not depart and leave Herakles here on his own. I feared I’d find his body in pieces by morning, and Aemil would never forgive me for losing him another gladiator.

  I also had no wish to join the two in whatever antics they would adjourn to do. I silently withdrew from the room, seeking the peristyle garden and its quiet comfort.

  I decided to find the servants’ quarters and search for Cassia. I did not want to betray her presence, but at the same time, I wanted to make certain she was safe.

  When I turned to make my way toward the back of the house and the passageway I’d spied under the stairs on my last visit, a large man stepped in front of me. I recognized him as Severina’s bodyguard, the one who had stopped me at the bathhouse.

  “My lady requests your presence at her house two nights hence,” he intoned. “After the Lupercalia. Her home is on the Caelian Hill off the Clivus Scauri, near the shrine of Minerva.”

  I nodded to his glittering eyes. I’d already accepted her invitation, but he was making it formal.

  The bodyguard said not another word. He turned and marched away, his footsteps surprisingly quiet for such a large man.

  As I’d suspected, the culina and storerooms for foodstuffs lay at the other end of the peristyle, the entrance to them under the staircase. The kitchen I glanced into had a larger stove than most domii—a rectangular stone cabinet with a fire below and tripods on which to set the cooking pots on top. No one was there, the food already finished and served.

  Laughter floated from the storeroom next to the culina. I stepped inside it to behold Cassia, her eyes shining, laughing in an easy way I’d never heard from her before. A tall and gangly young man stood in front of her, holding her hands and gazing at her in adoration.