by Nick Morris
“But, why?-“
“Please, just do this…for me.”
“Very well,” said Zamura, unable to hide the concern she felt. “You will come back, won’t you?” A tear had formed in the corner of one of her eyes.
“Nothing will stop me returning, I promise.” He raised his hand to stroke her cheek and saw some of the worry ease away.
Zamura sniffed then looked around the room. He knew she was trying not to cry.
“At least your lodgings are now clean,” she stated, trying to compose herself. “Better than that pig pen you were in, before you…”
“Had my arm cut off?” He finished for her. He recognised the awkward expression on her face, and he knew she would not deliberately hurt him with words. She cared for him too much.
“Can I touch it?” she asked, pointing to his puckered stump.
“Of course, it won’t bite you.”
She softly traced the ragged scar, then bent forward and kissed it.
Prudes swallowed hard, touched by her tenderness.
“You are still more of a man with one arm than any man I know with two,” she said, looking deeply into his eyes.
“You are very kind,” he replied with an exaggerated bow of his head.
“Have you enough money?” she asked
“Thank you, yes,” he confirmed, a little embarrassed by the question.
Zamura was a free woman, a resident of Pompeii, who’d been forced into her trade following the sudden death of her parents from the lung fever. Such was a beauty and talented in what she did. She could be very choosy about her patrons. There’d been a time when that greasy bastard Albus had tried to bully her into lowering her standards and upping his own cut. Accompanied by Belua they’d paid him a visit. He quickly saw the error of his plan.
He knew that she was quite a wealthy lady, perhaps wealthier than that tight bastard, Gordeo. Then, maybe not? He’d often wondered why she hadn’t quit her life as a whore? When they spoke of it, she’d simply answer, “One day soon.” It left him puzzled, but he knew better than to try to work out any woman’s mind. And, he’d never taken advantage of her wealth, because he cared for her too, probably more than was good for him.
“You’ve never talked to me about your past, or your upbringing?” Zamura plucked the statement out of the air. “You never talk about your life before the arena?”
“What would you like to know?” enquired Prudes, unperturbed.
“Everything.”
“How did someone as nosy as you live so long?”
“By my looks,” said Zamura, smiling provocatively.
“Very well, but there’s not a great deal to tell.” Prudes pursed his lips before continuing. “My home was in the eastern land of Cilicia.”
“I’ve heard people speak of it,” said Zamura attentively.
“My people have a reputation for being hot blooded and cruel, but I let others make up their own minds about that. Cilicia is a beautiful but harsh place. There are great mountain ranges and vast desserts so hot that the very stones sweat. I grew up in a town on the coast called Sebaste. Many ships visit there and my father earned his living by sending trading caravans to the east. He owned fifty camels and was regarded as a wealthy man in our town.” He paused to take a sip of wine. He offered a drink to Zamura, who shook her head, keen for him to continue.
“My mother was my father’s second wife, and I was his second son. She was a kind, quiet woman, and my brother was a very serious man whose goal in life was to earn a fortune. We were very different.” Prudes grinned wryly. “My father was a good sort, and he understood that the merchant’s life was not for his youngest son. He recognised my fighting spirit and employed an ex-soldier to teach me the way of the sword and spear, and I loved it! When I’d seen eighteen summers, I told my family I was leaving.”
“What did they say?” asked Zamura.
“My mother cried and kissed me. My father shook my hand and gave me a pouch of gold. He wished me good luck and told me that I always had a home in Sebaste. My brother said nothing…we were never close.”
“Did you then travel straight to Campania?” she asked, seeming engrossed by his tale.
“No,” he said. “I gained employment as a caravan guard, and later as a paid sword for local rulers in Thrace and Moesia. They were exciting times, but I was always drawn westwards, towards Rome. Eventually, I arrived in Campania in one piece, and quickly learned that there was good pay to be earned in the arena, doing what I liked best. I joined a gladiator troupe in Capua, and after winning the rudis gained employ as an instructor in Ludus Gordeo. The rest you know.”
After a while, Zamura said, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
“You’re welcome,” Prudes responded, before suggesting, “Could you give work a miss today? I’m sure Albus won’t object.”
“Because you’re feeling horny again?” she queried, raising one eye-brow.
“No, because I’ll miss you,” he flashed one of his broadest smiles.
“If you marry me, I could be with you as much as you desired.” Her voice was sober and her face suddenly looked very young, vulnerable.
“One day, my beauty, one day.”
“I’ll be an old crone by that time,” said Zamura, the look now gone.
“You’ll never be old,” he cajoled.
Zamura stretched up her arms, the muscles moving sleekly beneath her skin. “So what did you have in mind for the rest of the day then? If I stay that is.”
“I thought a stroll by the harbour would be good. We could have some food and there’s a particular amber necklace that I’ve spotted there. One that I propose to buy for a very special woman I know…”
Zamura jumped onto him, leaving him winded. She kissed him fiercely on the lips, and then stated, “I suppose Albus won’t miss me for a few hours.”
“I’m sure he won’t,” said Prudes, deftly flipping her giggling onto her back.
Chapter 25
ROME – THE SUBURA
A coarse voice rang out above her head, warning passers-by that human waste was about to be dumped into the narrow street. Akana instinctively looked up, at the same time skipping smartly to one side. The night soil splashed amongst the accumulated filth in the street.
She’d forgotten in her short time away how Rome was a place of extremes. The city’s open forums, its grand patrician houses and cool colonnades were a marked contrast to the life here in the Subura. One could easily get lost in the warren of chaotic, suffocating avenues that were so constricted that the upper floors of the insulae touched heads. The houses themselves were mostly built from cob and wattle and were so rickety that they only remained erect by leaning against each other for support. As a result they regularly collapsed or burnt down when a fire spread rapidly from building to building.
Her former master, Titus, had lived here. It was the time before Flavia had spotted her in the forum, and had bought her there and then, making her master an offer he couldn’t, daren’t refuse. The memory of her time with Titus – the repulsive pig made her flinch. She’d been one of the many residents crowded into an attic in the insulae.
She looked up at the housing blocks rising shakily to the skyline. Rapacious landlords built cheap and cramped lodgings in the insulae. The higher you went, the more dangerous was your life. Your bleak room would be lit by candles or smoky oil lamps.
Windows would let in some light but also the cold too. Residents choked on the thick air. Cooking was usually done on an open stove and no matter how careful you were there was always the danger that a drunken neighbour below would set the building alight. High up, there was no way to escape and the cheap buildings burned like summer grass.
As there was no room for kitchens in the cheap lodgings, activities spread onto the streets with the numerous bars and eateries heaving with people of every race, creed and disposition. A riot of activity took place against a background of constant noise from carts, wagons, litters and horses. And t
here were those less fortunate than herself, who had no master to pay the rent and as result set up home in the nooks and crannies of public buildings, under stairs and even in the larger tombs. The Subura smelled of poverty, of garlic, rancid oil and unwashed clothes and bodies. Here in the maze of dirty streets the refuse of the Empire congregated to fuck and eat, to beg and steal, to curse, work and die. The air they breathed was foul. Up on the rich heights of Rome’s hills with their Greek monuments, fine temples and palaces the air was fresh and clean.
She lifted the hem of her robe to avoid a pile of steaming horse droppings. Robbery was rife in the district and she’d been careful to wear only the poorest of clothing to avoid drawing nefarious attention to her. Life was very cheap in the Subura and she had no intention of letting vanity get in the way of her accomplishing her task.
A man stepped out from one of the doorways in front of her. It was hard to tell his age due to filth that covered his face. He was dressed in rags, and his voice was slurred when he spoke.
“I’ll pay youssh one she...sheshtercee for a fuck.”
“Move out of my way!” she responded angrily.
He was swaying from side to side, smiling. Rotten broken teeth lined his mouth.
“Jusshed a…a qu…quick one,” he persisted.
She tried to move around him, but he managed to stagger sideways into her path. He was quite tall and fat.
“I’m no whore!” she barked at him.
“Pre...pretty though.”
People passed them on both sides, indifferent to her predicament. She sensed the drunken pig would not be deterred by strong words. If he managed to grab her and push her against the wall, or to the floor, she’d be in trouble. And it could get worse, with others possibly joining in if they saw the opportunity for a free fuck. She’d seen it happen in the Subura and knew she had to act. Her right hand delved beneath her robe.
“If you want to fuck me, first show me some coin,” she proposed, forcing one of her most sensual smiles.
The drunk held out his right hand, a single grubby sesterce sat in the middle of his open palm. He grinned, revealing more stained teeth.
Her right hand whipped forwards, the slim knife blade slicing deep into the extended wrist. The drunk was momentarily stunned before crying out as bright blood geysered from the wound, painting the nearby insula wall. He collapsed to his knees, trying to stem the stream of blood with his other hand.
Akana stepped around him and quickly headed away. She knew that she’d cut deeply enough to probably finish him, just where the main vessel in the arm crossed the bones in the wrist. Without immediate help he’d quickly bleed out, and there’d be no help in the Subura. She quickened her pace, wiping the blade in the hem of her cloak. She tried to slow her breathing down after the sudden rush of adrenalin. It slowly returned to normal. Composing herself she endeavoured to get her bearings.
Her memory was good and she eventually picked out the land marks she’d memorized on her last visit, to find the man the city’s under-belly knew only as Coluber – The Snake. She shivered, remembering her first meeting with the assassin; how he’d stripped her with his gaze, and how she’d hurried away after she’s relayed Flavia’s message and paid him his fee. She dreaded meeting him again but knew that she had no choice in the matter.
Turning into a dark side alley she spotted the building she sought. A feeling of nausea rose up as her belly turned over. The words ‘For Rent’ was painted in large red letters on the wall close by, although all of the nearby doorways were boarded up with splintered planks of rotted wood.
She approached the familiar door-way. An iron knocker in the shape of a nymph was located above a shuttered peep-hole. She noticed that her hand trembled as she raised the knocker. She knocked hard, repeatedly; keen to get the ordeal over with.
After long moments a deep voice queried from behind the door, “Who is it and what is your business?”
“My name is Akana, slave of Flavia, daughter of house Inciatus, and now domina of a noble house in Pompeii.” She paused a moment, her hand tightly clutching the money pouch she concealed beneath her cloak. She looked up and down the alley, making sure it was empty. She lowered her voice. “I visited you two years past, once with my mistress, and she now asks that you do her another service.”
“And what service is that?” the voice asked, unhurried.
“It’s not wise to discuss such matters here, where the walls may have ears,” she responded, trying to sound confident.
There was another long, uncomfortable silence, and then the shutter slid open.
She instinctively stepped back. The voice behind the door snickered, a cruel, cold sound. Two eyes peered at her, one a piercing brown, the other a clouded white.
“I remember you,” the voice stated. The shutter slid closed. The noise of heavy bolts being withdrawn quickly followed. The door opened a small way and a hand beckoned her in.
It was black, the air musky. Bolts were rammed fast behind her. An icy tingle fluttered down her spine and she breathed deeply, trying to stem the rising feeling of panic in the darkness.
Then a voice to her front ordered, “Come.” Her arm was clasped roughly in iron fingers, pulling her deeper into the dark. She stumbled onwards, her eyes beginning to adjust to the unlit gloom. A heavy drape was drawn aside, and she squinted into a small room lit by a candle on a table. Her arm was released. She blinked her eyes, trying to focus. The room was dim and she waited a moment for her pupils to adjust.
Coluber had seated himself on the room’s only chair. It was pulled up to a table on which he rested his clasped hands. There was a sleeping pallet in one corner of the room, but nothing else. The place gave Akana the feeling of being in a tomb.
Coluber fixed her with his good eye, his large shaved head gleaming like opaque marble.
“Speak,” he said, his voice deep with a rasping edge. “What does you mistress require of me?”
Akana cleared her throat as she stared at the two knives that resting on the table, along with a sharpening stone and some olives. One knife was long, as long as a gladius, but with a thinner blade that tapered steadily from the slim guard to a needle point. The other was shorter with a vicious curved edge, similar to the blades she’d seen from the east. The tools of an assassin, she thought. The sleeves of his dark tunic were pushed up and she saw the old scars on his wrists and forearms.
She swallowed hard before speaking.
“She wants you to dispose of her step-son, a young noble in Pompeii named Clodian Gaius Ralla. And, she needs it done before the Festival of Parentalia. The youth will become a citizen shortly afterwards and assume his full position as the rightful heir of his dead father.
“I see,” said Coluber, picking up the smaller of his knives. Akana felt her heart pound against her chest bone. He continued, “Killing such an individual, a noble, is a very serious business. The man carrying out such an act would need to leave Rome afterwards, perhaps even the empire? Such a task would be very, very expensive.”
“Can you do it?”Akana asked.
She watched Coluber slowly smile, a humorless gesture.
“It’s not case of can, you Egyptian slut.” His tone locked the breath in her throat. His hands were large, the fingers long, and he thumbed the edge of his knife, testing its sharpness as he spoke. “It’s a matter of will I do it?”
She feared what to say next and remained silent.
“A hundred gold aureii is the price,” he said finally.
Reaching beneath her robe she emptied the contents of the heavy money pouch onto the table. “There are forty, and you will receive the remainder when the deed is done.
Coluber picked out one of the gold coins, rubbing it sensually between his thumb and fingers.
“My mistress has secured lodgings for you in Pompeii, at the Inn of Prima, under the name Brutus Capito. I will bring you all the information you’ll need there, in five days time at the first hour.”
Coluber looked up
from the table, the reflection of the gold glinting in his good eye.
Breathless, her small hurried steps carried her onto the Vicus Bublarius and into the sunshine. She licked the sweat from her top lip and sat down on the base of a stone column, relieved to have left the Subura and the Snake behind. It had been a long, tiring trek through the congested streets in the valleys between the city’s hills, and her calves ached, not used to the exertion.
The ancient Palatine opened up in front of her. A different world, she thought, her eyes taking in the splendid city houses of the rich and influential and the marble temples to diverse gods. This was her favourite place in the city and she’d often come here; to the most central of the city’s hills that regally gazed down at the Forum of Julius Caesar on the one side and the Circus Maximus on the other.
She took deep breaths, cleaning her lungs. The sinking red sun tinted the surrounding expanse of stone. It was beautiful. After a while she leaned back against a convenient stone column. It was cool, and from the tall building’s hidden recesses came the low, rolling lament of doves. She closed her eyes.
She pictured her mistress’s face when she returned to Pompeii. She’d be very pleased, and hopefully very generous. Akana had always been careful to set aside most of the coin that Flavia had gifted her. One day she would need it. She’d always enjoyed lying with her mistress, but not always the many and varied individuals whom she brought to her bed. Yet, Akana knew better than any how ruthless Flavia was. There would come a day when an older Akana would no longer be of interest to her. Then, she’d not hesitate to have her killed. She knew too much. But, she’d be gone before the axe fell. She’d have sufficient funds to take ship with a new name, to Egypt.
Until then, she would do anything that her mistress commanded.
The sun was beginning to set, painting the palaces high on the Palatine rose red and the tall cypresses between them an inky black. She sighed, realizing that this would probably be the last time she would see the city that was the centre of the Roman world.