“Oh, thanks a lot!”
“You know what I mean. But I think it’s true. The family probably doesn’t have that much riding on his alliances. You may have a chance.”
“But that sounds so cold and calculating.”
“It’s not any more calculating or cold than what your father is doing.”
Lucia didn’t know what to say to that. They continued going through the clothes in silence.
“Any word from Pliny?” Lucia asked after a while. “I would still love to talk to the man.”
Cornelia shook her head. “It doesn’t look good.”
“Why?”
She shrugged, not meeting Lucia’s eyes. “Antyllus is not very encouraging.”
“Oh, please push him! We are running out of time.”
“All right, I will try again.” She put down the blanket she was holding. “I wonder if Antyllus knows your patrician.”
“He is not my patrician.”
“Well, I’m hoping soon he will be. What is his name again?”
“Quintus Rutilius,” Lucia said. “Cornelia, I don’t like that look in your eyes.”
“What look? I’m just going to ask my husband if he knows him. You should not underestimate the power of connections, my dear. Antyllus may be able to help here.”
“I’d rather he helped with the Plinys, please.”
“Either way, you know you have to stop seeing the amazing kisser. You can’t risk a scandal. Now, what you do after you’re married is up to you.”
“Cornelia!”
“I’m just being realistic. But really, I think you need to stop seeing him and start working on Quintus.”
Stop seeing Tag? She’d only just kissed him. The very idea of never doing so again left her feeling hollow.
Cornelia must have read her thoughts because she leaned toward Lucia and said, “Your only focus must be on finding an alternative to marrying Vitulus and staying in Pompeii near me. This is your home.”
Lucia’s shoulders slumped. Cornelia reached over and squeezed her hand. “Have faith. It will all work out in the end,” she said. “We will be together forever in Pompeii. I just know it.”
Tag realized he’d lost count yet again of the dried coriander seeds and, with an irritated huff, swept the piles together to start over. All day, he’d been trying to bring his attention to heel, without much success. His mind constantly turned to thoughts of being out in the woods with Lucia, of the feel of her body pressed against his, of the honey taste of her mouth, of the warm softness of her skin.
“Healer.” Someone tugged on his tunic. “Healer. Healer. Healer.”
“What?”
“Look!” Castor pointed outside, where Tag could see men running toward the sandpit.
“Is somebody injured?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but I hear yelling,” the boy said.
Tag rushed outside with his surgical box under his arm. He’d learned early from his father that having scalpels and clamps on hand could mean the difference between life and death if a gladiator was bleeding heavily.
“Where’s Pontius?” he asked as he caught up to a gladiator running toward the increasingly large knot of men.
“Dunno. Saw him leave with Titurius a while ago,” the man said.
Tag wondered whom Pontius had left in charge. He hoped it was someone the men respected, because whatever was brewing didn’t look good. A knot of sweating, nearly naked gladiators encircled a pair of fighters. Taunts, insults, and laughter roiled around the men. Two gladiators fighting outside the sparring ring was likely to end in serious injury or even death, enraging the master. Tag decided the best way to calm the situation was to play dumb.
“The medicus is here!” he called out, pushing through the knot of men. “Tell me who is injured. Make way. Make way for the healer.” If violence had a smell, he thought, this was it — an almost visible miasma of male sweat, aggression, fear, and blood.
To his surprise, he found Quintus in the center, being taunted by a red-faced, stocky fighter from Iberia named Hamilcar. Tag looked around for the overseer in charge. His stomach knotted to see Pontius’s second laughing along with the rest of the men.
“Who is injured?” Tag repeated, pretending he still did not understand what was happening.
“The better question is who is about to get more injured,” the Iberian growled in heavily accented Latin. He pushed his finger into Quintus’s chest. “And this pasty little flower here is about to get a taste of what real gladiators do.”
Blood trickled down the side of Quintus’s head. His eyes were wide with panic. Tag locked gazes with the overseer in charge, silently appealing for the man to step in and stop Hamilcar. But the man only grinned at him, showing brown teeth.
“This man is under Titurius’s special protection,” Tag tried.
Some of the men laughed. “So?” Hamilcar taunted. “The master is not here. And if I break his jaw, this little worm won’t be able to speak my name.”
Tag moved in closer to the two men. “Look, you don’t want to —” he began.
Hamilcar seized Quintus’s wrist and, with lightning speed, twisted two fingers as if he was intending to break them. Quintus hissed, trying to lean into the direction of the twist to take the edge off the pain. “And if he tries to identify me,” Hamilcar said, “I will break all his fingers.”
Again, Tag looked toward the overseer in charge. The man crossed his arms.
“Come on, healer boy,” one of the men called out. “You know he deserves this.”
“Oh, I agree, he deserves it,” Tag replied. “And I’d be the first in line to crack him in the head a time or two …”
Some of the men chuckled.
“But,” he added, louder, “I’ve already had one whipping recently, and I’m not interested in another one. And even if this mundus excrementi does not identify you, Hamilcar, we will all get whipped for not stopping you. Am I right, Titus?” He stared at the man in charge, who had stopped smiling.
Everyone knew it was true. Some of the men began muttering and moving their feet. “He ain’t worth another whipping,” someone called out.
“The boy is right,” said a deep voice from behind them. Tag turned. The men had broken the circle for their primus palus, the house champion, the long-haired German Sigdag. “Let that weasel go, Hamilcar. We all know you could kill him with one blow. Where is the honor in that?”
More mumbling as men began moving away.
“Come, let us spar, Hamilcar,” Sigdag continued. “Fight a real man and not a little girl.”
Choruses of “Yes, yes, let’s see that” increased as Hamilcar turned his attention to the big German. Tag grabbed Quintus’s arm and steered him rapidly across the sand toward the treatment room.
Once inside the dark room, Quintus began to shake.
“Sit,” Tag commanded, pointing to a squat three-legged stool. Quintus just stared at it. Tag took him by the arm again, led him to it, and pushed him down by the shoulders. The sounds of laughter and wooden swords thumping against one another drifted into the room.
Tag poured Quintus a cup of medicinal wine, barely cutting it with water. “Here,” he said, thrusting it into the man’s face. “Drink.”
Quintus drained it in one gulp.
“What in Pluto’s name happened out there?” Tag asked.
“I only asked him if he felt shamed about being a fighting slave when he carried the noble name of Hannibal’s father.”
Tag closed his eyes, momentarily awed by the man’s sheer stupidity. “Where is your injury?”
Quintus pointed to a cut on the edge of his hairline. Tag mopped it up with a vinegar solution, then applied a thin coating of honey and goose fat as gently as he could on the gash. Once the cut was cleaned, he swabbed at the blood on Quintus’s neck and chest, checking for abrasions the fool may not have realized he’d gotten. He could feel the patrician staring at him as he worked.
“That was … that was very brave of you to help me
,” Quintus said.
Tag nodded, guessing that was as close as the blue blood was ever going to get to actually thanking him for saving him from the mob of infuriated gladiators.
“I wish I could have you by my side for protection whenever I’m around those animals,” he added.
Tag did not respond as he checked the bones of Quintus’s fingers and hands.
When he was done, he noticed the patrician still watching him. “With all due respect,” Tag said, “I suggest you keep your mouth shut around the others.”
As he began to turn away, Quintus grabbed his wrist. “Were you telling the truth? Would you have wanted to beat me too?” He suddenly looked very young.
Tag knew he should lie, as all good slaves must to survive — to tell him, “Of course not, I was just trying to gain the men’s trust” — but, for some reason, he just couldn’t. He held his tongue.
Quintus released his wrist, his cheeks flushing. “One day I will find a way to make you see me differently.” He stood and stalked out of the room.
* * *
“Tages!” Pontius called the next day as he stepped into the medical room, stooping under the lintel.
“Someone hurt?” Tag asked, jumping up.
Pontius waved him back down when Castor jumped in front of Tag as if defending him, waving a pretend shield and sword. “Beware! I will slay you like a sausage!”
Pontius grinned at the child and said, “Terrible stance, boy. Go get me some fresh honey water from the kitchen and maybe later I’ll show you how to do it right.”
Castor flew out of the room, grinning. When the child was gone, Pontius turned to Tag. “Remember when ye asked if ye could train to be a gladiator?”
Tag froze. “Yes …”
“Well, Dominus is allowing it.”
“What? How?” He grinned. Were the gods finally seeing fit to give him the chance to win his freedom?
“There is, however, one catch,” the overseer said.
Tag’s smile disappeared. “And what would that be?”
“I need ye to train alongside Quintus. He is a disaster. The master wants him to feel like he is getting a gladiatorial experience, but I can barely keep the men from tearing him to pieces every time he opens his mouth.”
Tag stared at him. “You cannot be serious!”
Pontius sighed. “I can’t let Quintus train or spar with anyone else. Him always lording himself over everyone … Everyone wants to slit his throat before they even step into the sandpit. And since the master has made ‘special arrangements’ with the man, I need to pair him with somebody who won’t kill him.”
“Wonderful. I am pleased to hear how much confidence you have in my fighting instincts.”
“Yer fighting ways are probably just fine. I’m sure ye could kill him without much effort. But yer a healer. So I know I can count on you not to kill ’im.”
“In other words, you’re asking me to babysit him.”
“Yep. And by the way, it was his idea.”
“Quintus’s?” Tag asked incredulously.
Pontius nodded.
Tag groaned. “But I despise the man.”
“Welcome to the brotherhood. But now pay attention.” The overseer leaned in and lowered his voice. “This is yer opening. Show some skill and I just might be able to convince Dominus to let ye continue when that perfumed pig leaves.”
Tag nodded.
“But yer first priority is to make sure that Quintus doesn’t get himself killed by some hothead who won’t stand for his insults — which I’ve heard ye already have some experience with. The rest we’ll see about. So anytime yer not needed to treat anyone, you’ll be out with the rest of us brutes, as he calls us.”
“Thank you, Pontius.”
A grin emerged from the Samnite’s mass of black beard. “We’ll see if yer still grateful after I put ye through yer paces.”
Lucia looked out the opening of her wooded cave. Was Tag coming? He’d hinted he was going to get out there that afternoon.
But what if he couldn’t get away? Waiting inside the enclosure felt too constricting. She needed to be doing something, whether he came or not. So she reached under the old blanket for her leather bag, pulled out a wax tablet, and crawled outside. At least she could review her notes and maybe jot down some other observations while she waited.
The cracks in the earth, the disappearing spring, the tremors slight enough to vibrate only spiderwebs — there had to be a pattern. It had to mean something. But what? Were the phenomena localized to Pompeii? Or were strange things happening over all of the Bay of Neapolis? What about the sea — had fishermen reported any strange events? What about all those eels dying in their sea pools in Herculaneum that Quintus had mentioned?
An image of Cornelia’s unborn babe moving under the surface of her skin came into Lucia’s mind. Her friend had complained that sometimes the baby’s movements were so frequent or intense, they made her jump in pain or woke her from a sound sleep.
What if … what if something similar was happening in Pompeii? What if the gods were preparing to push new life into the world like Cornelia’s babe, and these rumblings and tumblings were part of it? But what would the earth be giving “birth” to? Had anyone ever witnessed such a thing? Who could say how mountain ranges or great rivers like the Sarnus were born? Perhaps a new mountain range was readying to burst through the earth, connecting Mount Vesuvius to the Apennines. Or small springs were drying up in one place, gathering strength to burst forth into another river across the valley.
The thought of Cornelia and the earth’s stirrings reminded her of the danger of childbirth in general. She said a silent prayer to Juno, Vesta, and Diana on Cornelia’s behalf. May you watch over her and her baby; may they both survive.
Gods, what she would give to speak with Pliny about her observations and theories. It would be such a shame to not meet the great man at least once before she was exiled to Rome. And despite what Cornelia thought, once he realized just how well-read Lucia was in his own works, she knew he wouldn’t mock her. He might even be impressed. She would have to ask Cornelia again about her progress in setting something up.
Tag’s shadow fell over her. She jumped up in surprise.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I made as much noise as Hannibal’s trumpeting elephants, but I guess you were lost in your writings.”
“I am developing a theory,” she said, snapping the wax tablet closed.
He blinked and tilted his head slightly.
“Never mind,” she said. “I wanted to show you something.” She hadn’t intended to go into the woods with him again, but suddenly she could not look him in the eye, and walking at least gave them something to do. If she were honest with herself, she’d admit she invited him out there just for the opportunity to kiss him again. But what if he didn’t want to kiss her? Would he feel forced to obey her if she tried? Gods, the first time she’d kissed him had been a thoughtless impulse. Why couldn’t the second time be as easy?
“Where are we going, Lucia?” he asked as they started walking.
“You’ll see. I hear you are training with Quintus now. Is that true?”
“Yes. Mostly my job is to keep him from getting killed,” Tag said with disdain.
“Why do you dislike him so much?” she asked.
“You mean besides the obvious? Besides the fact that he is a self-important, narcissistic prig who casually gives up his freedom to play at sword fighting, when I would give my life to be free of slavery and of your father?”
She stopped. “You hate my father that much?”
He ran a hand through his curls. “Do you want me to answer that honestly?”
“But all your needs are met, aren’t they? You’re educated, clothed, you don’t suffer from hunger, you have a roof over your head, the respect of the other slaves —”
His eyes grew wide. “Are you suggesting that I should be happy to be a slave? That I should count my blessings rather than fight fo
r the freedom that was stolen dishonorably from my family? Just because I am fed and watered and sometimes whipped like a dog — like Minos?”
She looked away. “No, that is not what I meant. I’m sorry, I just …” Gods, why did she keep saying the wrong thing?
“Why are we here, Lucia?” He sounded exasperated.
Heat flooded her cheeks. “I … uh, well, found something that I thought you would like.” She turned and walked on, hoping he would follow.
“Oh, look. There it is,” she cried with relief after an excruciatingly long and silent walk. The remainder of a tiny circular temple — three columns dusted with green mold and crumbling with decay — surrounded a vine-covered altar in a clearing before them. High in the branches of a huge cypress tree hung corroded bronze bells that tinkled with the breeze.
“You found this place years ago when we were playing in the woods,” Lucia said, recalling his grin of satisfaction when he’d shown it to her. “It has an old well too,” she added, pointing to a circular brick structure in the ground in front of the altar. “Do you remember it?”
Tag looked around. “Yes. Vaguely.” He threw a large rock in the empty well. They heard a muffled thud but no splash. “Must have dried up long ago.”
She pushed a piece of hair off her forehead. “It reminded me of the altar to Mephistis you showed me….”
He nodded in agreement.
“Perhaps it was abandoned after the big earthquake, which would explain why it’s in such terrible condition.”
“Makes sense,” Tag said.
Gods, why was she so nervous? He was a slave! “I will … I’ll leave her an offering,” she said. “Just in case.” She headed for a patch of marigolds and picked an armful. She placed some on the altar and began dropping the rest one by one into the well, watching as they tumbled head over stem into the blackness.
“Don’t throw all of them in. I should take some back,” Tag said, sitting with his back against a tree. “I can make a paste for bruises from them.”
Lucia nodded and gathered more flowers. She laid them at his feet and he began separating the petals. A small flash in the sunlight caught her eye. She walked over to the well and brushed aside a pile of ivy and overgrowth. Looking up to see if Tag was watching — he wasn’t — she plucked at the metal object. It was embedded in the dirt, so she dug her fingernails in to pull it out.
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