"Thank you, no" Fronto said with a friendly smile. "To be honest, I'm in a bit of a hurry." He shifted the bulky weight of his toga slightly. He still hated wearing them, but as a badge of rank they helped people take you seriously. They also, as Faleria had pointed out none-too-kindly, hid a bulging waistline rather well.
"I was not warned of your visit, sir" the lanista went on, sycophantically bowing again. "Had I been, you would have been welcomed fittingly."
"This is fine, thank you, Tubero. I'm not in the market for pomp and splendour. I'm in the market for a gladiator."
Tubero's face fell, though only for a heartbeat before being replaced by a hopeful smile. "Just the one, dominus? Difficult to hold even the simplest match with one."
"I'm not staging a match or any sort of game, private or public" Fronto said in a business-like manner.
"Oh?" the face fell a little again.
"I'm looking to purchase a single man for myself."
"Oh…" the man leered.
"Not like that!" snapped Fronto angrily. "I want a personal trainer… for my nephew" he added weakly.
"Ah. Well my gladiators are the best in Rome, dominus, so you have come to the right place, but they are not cheap, I will warn you."
Fronto nodded. "I had a feeling."
"Could I ask how you came to choose the house of Tubero for your needs?" the man asked hopefully. Fronto smiled. Almost anyone reputable would have gone elsewhere, but Fronto had his reasons.
"Of course. I am informed that a week or so ago you came by a fresh purchase from the house of Oculatius? A Numidian."
"Him!" the lanista almost spat, and then his mouth curved into a smile and his face took on a desperate hope. "Oh him? You mean the Murmillo?"
"Masgava. I am led to believe that he is troublesome. Even the harsh rule of Oculatius could not control him. It's said that he sold him on to recoup some money, as the alternative was just to dispose of him."
Tubero's fake smile became wider and easier. "I fear you hear falsehoods, sir. The one they call Masgava is spirited, certainly, but no trouble. He will be the pride of my stable when he is broken."
Fronto smiled in return. "He has now been in the stable of all four of Rome's lanistas, and I suspect half a dozen others before he reached the city. If he's not broken now, you're unlikely to manage it."
Tubero's smile slipped and a lot of his hope vanished down the lopsided lip. "What's your bottom line, dominus?"
"Three hundred denarii. No more."
The lanista shook his head, the usual business patter taking over. "Respectfully, three hundred is ridiculous, dominus. Even a green, untried youth would go for more than that. Masgava is a veteran of the games - a champion. He could command ten times that."
"He could if he were less trouble. I don't know how much you got him for at your bargain price, but I know that Oculatius only paid two hundred for him, so you can't have spent more than two hundred and fifty. Probably less. You've had him for a week and I'll wager that already he's causing issues."
"He is calm and happy with his lot, dominus. I couldn't possibly sell him for less than five hundred."
"Let's go have a look at him" Fronto suggested, standing. Tubero, his face starting to take on a distinctly unhappy taint, rose and followed him back out to the courtyard. The ugly gateman glanced once at Fronto and then turned back to the street outside. The three other guards who patrolled the courtyard and the divide between training area and private domicile moved slightly more to attention as their employer arrived. Fronto instantly wrote them off as unworthy when compared to a real soldier. The house of Tubero was not wealthy enough even to hire ex-legionaries as guards - these were thugs, beggars and criminals with cudgels.
Beyond the wall the training was still going strong, and Fronto strode across to the bars easily. One of the guards motioned him to step back and his did so, just enough so that no arm thrust through the gaps could grab the folds of his toga.
Masgava stood at the far side of the yard, immobile, watching the rest with a blank expression. Fronto spotted the doctor - the chief trainer - moving about the yard, encouraging, shouting and complaining.
"Call him over."
Tubero, his smile now entirely vanished, shouted the doctor, who gave a gladiator a thump with the thick end of his coiled whip and then stomped across the yard to the barred wall.
"Yes, dominus?"
Fronto gestured to him. "The Numidian at the back?"
"Yes, dominus?"
"Is he ready for a match yet?"
"If he feels like it, dominus."
"Sorry?"
"He's trouble, that one."
Fronto turned a beatific smile on Tubero. "Three hundred. No more. And to sweeten the deal, I shall pass word around those I meet at Pompey's next reception that the house of Tubero is worthy should they be seeking to host a match."
The smile came back, slightly shaky, but there nonetheless.
"Three hundred, dominus? Very well, though I will be breaking my own back with the financial burden. Shall I have him roped and delivered to your villa?"
Fronto grinned. "Actually, no. Have him gather what gear he has and just release him out of the side gate."
The lanista stared at him, but Fronto produced a weighty purse of coins from beneath the voluminous folds of his toga and dangled it in front of the man, who watched it swinging hypnotically.
"He's a wild beast, dominus. He might kill you before he runs for it!"
Fronto shrugged. "I'll risk it. See to it. I shall be in the street outside, waiting."
The lanista stared at Fronto and then at the purse that dropped into his hand. The noble visitor with the insane purchasing habits was already marching for the gate, where the ugly little guard was unlocking it.
He would wait until he was inside once more to gloat. That old bastard Oculatius had been so damn glad to see the back of the Numidian he had almost given him to Tubero and even then, he had been thinking he'd been overcharged.
Three hundred denarii! Now he could buy a real gladiator for the stable.
* * * * *
The heavy wooden door bound with iron strips opened slowly to reveal the hulking shape of the Numidian almost filling it. Fronto smiled warmly at the colossus, who eyed him suspiciously.
"Masgava, I believe."
As the big man ducked to step through the gate, the guards closing it and locking it behind him, Fronto felt the first thrill of something unusual and new running through him. He was used to the military life, but this was different. The man two feet from him in the quiet alley was a trained, expert and inventive killer with a track record of disobedience. It was almost as good as standing on a battlefield.
"You want to kill me?"
The Numidian frowned and glanced to both sides, as though expecting to see the usual archers waiting to pin him to the door if he moved wrong - a standard gladiator's lot. No archers were evident, and he looked back at Fronto with increased suspicion.
"You want to own me?"
Fronto laughed and the Numidian cocked his head to one side. "They said your name is Falerius. I do not know of a ludus of Falerius?"
"That, my dear Masgava, is because I am not a lanista." Reaching out with a grin, he grasped the big man's extraordinarily muscular upper arm and turned him to walk down the street. Or so he planned. In fact, the big man proved as immobile as a stone wall, and Fronto simply felt the muscles move beneath the skin.
"Come" he urged, calmly and not unkindly. Masgava frowned again but turned, hoisting his sack of personal goods onto his back.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To our family's house on the Aventine. I have need of you, Masgava."
"I do not like to fight unworthy opponents and I am not a whore to be used" the man replied flatly.
"No wonder you're trouble for the lanistae. I'm surprised they've let you live at all. No gladiator sets his own rules."
"When I do fight, I make them a great deal of money."
Fronto shrugged. "Anyway, as I said: I'm not a lanista. And I am not in the market for a man to fight in a match, whether it be for blood or to the death. And I'm certainly not looking for a man-whore."
"Then why do you need a gladiator, dominus? Are you building an army?"
"Not really. I need a personal trainer in arms and fitness - largely the latter" he added sheepishly.
"For your son?"
"Actually, for myself."
"You are too old to train well."
"Gods, but you're outspoken for a slave. We'll have to do something about that!"
"I do not respond well to beatings."
"That's not what I meant. Tubero's man will be delivering your documents later today when they're drawn up. As soon as he does, I'm signing them over to you."
"What?"
"You'll be a free man, Masgava. Happy with that?"
"Why?"
"Because I need a trainer, not a slave. I need a man who feels he can talk to me on the level and who's not afraid of pushing me. And frankly because a man works better and is less likely to kill you in your bed when he's free."
Masgava frowned. "You want me to train you properly?"
"Yes."
"Then you need to do as I say."
Fronto grinned. "Obedience is well taught in the legions. Go on."
The big dark-skinned man paused and looked around. They were in one of the narrower streets on the lower slopes of the Aventine, looking back down towards the Tiber and the docks where barges were loading and unloading. There was on one else in the street, and no faces in evidence at the windows. The sun was high and hot and the population of this area, generally the more wealthy, were either in their houses cooling off, or at the baths.
"Take off the toga."
Fronto paused for a moment, about to argue. It was not a thing to ask of a nobleman even from a freedman, let alone a slave, but then he hated wearing the damn thing anyway. With some difficulty he struggled out of the hot, heavy, itchy garment and Masgava grasped it and draped it over his taut, muscled shoulder.
Feeling curiously like a boy who had angered his tutor, Fronto stood in the silent, empty, hot and dusty street in just his tunic and sandals, surprisingly exposed under the appraising gaze of the huge Numidian. Was this how slaves felt on the block? He mentally chided himself for the unworthy comparison. While his future was uncertain and there were things about his life he might change, he could never hope to feel how this dark-skinned killer had done on the sale podium.
Masgava walked slowly round him in a circle and then stopped again in front, his chin resting in a huge palm.
"Problem?" Fronto asked quietly, wondering if the big man was about to check his teeth.
"You were trained in arms, clearly, and trained well. The muscle on your sword arm still outweighs that of your left, so you rarely used a shield, but you clearly used a weapon a great deal. Your stomach sags but still shows the marks of having been taut less than a year since, and you have a number of battle scars. You were a centurion in the legions?"
"A little higher than that. A legatus and a tribune before that."
"Then you were an unusual officer; trained and fought like a soldier. You have let yourself decline since your retirement?"
"Something like that. I injured my knee and it led to me taking it a bit too easy this past half year."
Masgava nodded thoughtfully.
"Two months and you could be fit. Three and you'll be as fit as you've ever been. Give me six months and you'd make a champion in the arena. Ex-soldiers make good gladiators, when they're obedient and enthusiastic."
Fronto laughed. "The former I can claim. Enthusiasm, however, depends on what I'm asked to do. I've tried binding my knee and running on it, but I can't make half a length of a stadium. I can't see my general fitness rising too high until I can sort that problem out."
Masgava crouched and peered at his leg, causing Fronto to feel stupidly self-conscious. He hoped to the Gods he wasn't blushing. When the big Numidian jabbed a finger with the consistency of a pilum haft into the wobbly bit below his kneecap, he shrieked and almost collapsed to the floor, his leg turning to jelly. Despite the sack over his shoulder and the toga draped on top of that, the big Numidian still managed to catch Fronto with the probing hand and stop him falling. Slowly he rose, Fronto's eyes leaking with the pain.
"You tore the cable in your knee some time ago. The actual injury has healed, albeit badly. I suspect you failed to rest and exercise it, and went on as normal?"
"Sort of. I was in Germania and Britannia. Can't really relax and spend a month doing knee bends in that situation."
Masgava nodded understandingly. "Your main problem is not your injury. It comes from lack of care and rest and the jarring you kept giving it when it should have been healing. The medicus in any ludus will tell you all about it. It happens a lot among successful gladiators."
"Why successful ones?"
"The rest are not around long enough to suffer it."
Fronto smiled weakly. "So what do I do?"
"There is a lining on the bone that wears and even sometimes becomes detached. With a little support and the right exercise it will heal to some extent. Never expect it to heal fully though. You will have an aching knee for the rest of your life, but with the will of Fortuna, a few healthy offerings to Aesculapius, and the right regime of strengthening, you could reach a passable state and minimise the ache. The upshot is: you should certainly be able to act more or less normally, but get used to preparing for trouble in cold damp times."
Fronto wiped the pain-tear from his cheek and rolled his shoulders. "You'll happily train me then?"
Masgava gave a noncommittal shrug. "What else will I do? I am a slave at your beck and call, and you say you will make me free, but free also means poor. I cannot afford to return to my homeland, and starving in the streets does not appeal. I have seen how Rome treats its poor. They envy the slaves a roof and a meal."
"I'll take that as a yes, if a reluctant one. If you are to be a paid, free member of the household you will need more than a gladiator's loincloth and a strong will. Once I've shown you the house and you've settled into the room, I'll give you a month's wage up-front and you can have the rest of today to head into the markets and purchase a good cloak and boots and some reasonable clothes. I don't know what you have in that sack, but I'll wager it's not a clean tunic. Can you read? Can you write?"
Masgava shook his head. "Not the first priority for a fighter."
"Then I shall have Posco start showing you. It may not be the first priority, but I like any servant of the house to know their letters if they can. Saves no end of trouble later."
"You wish me to go into the city, then? On my own? Do you not fear I will flee? Or commit deeds worse than simple flight?" he added darkly.
Fronto grabbed the heavy toga from the big Numidian and draped it around himself in a rough approximation of the correct manner, turning and gesturing up the slope of the Aventine. "Are you likely to kill us in our sleep? Tubero seemed to suspect it."
"Tubero was an idiot. A runaway slave - even a gladiator - risks torment, but one who killed his master? The way he would be sent to walk among their ancestors does not bear thinking about. He would dream of a quick death. I have been troublesome to the lanistae, but never enough to bring such punishment upon myself."
The big man fell in alongside and the pair strode up the slope, emerging into a wider street where half a dozen citizens went about their business, ignoring the other half dozen residents who sat at the edge of the road with suppurating sores and twisted or missing limbs, arms outstretched for a coin. Beggar and citizen alike peered curiously at the strange mismatched pair: one huge and dark and almost naked, the other pale by comparison and stocky, wrapped badly in a huge white toga.
"I saw you fight in the theatre, you know? Against the crupellarius. Impressive. I had sword tutors as a young man and I trained alongside the soldiers of my legion in the Nin
th. My friend Velius taught me every trick he knew. But what you did was frankly astonishing." Fronto pursed his lips. "Twice in recent years I have found myself the target of enthusiastic killers and if I'd met them in the level of fitness and ability I currently maintain, I'd be dead in moments. It's important that I become fit once again, but I want more than that. I want that skill that allows you to take on a crupellarius without blinking."
"I will make you a killer of men if that is what you wish."
"Do that. And pull no punches. In return I will make sure you want for nothing and leave my service with the funds to go home a wealthy man. Or even start your own ludus if that's what you'd wish."
He locked his eyes on the end of his street ahead and missed the glint of satisfaction in the Numidian's eyes.
* * * * *
Faleria raised an eyebrow in that manner which suggests dangerous things might be about to happen.
"And you thought to do this without even asking the rest of us our opinion?"
Fronto grinned. "You told me to get fit. That's what I'm doing."
"By bringing a conscience-free killer into the house and giving him free rein to gut us in our beds?"
"You're usually a good judge of character Faleria. Are you blind?"
The lady of the house stepped forward past Fronto and looked the Numidian up and down… mostly up. For a while she rested her gaze on his eyes, which were a piercing and unblinking green, and her brow furrowed.
"He's an honest man. How unexpected. And somewhat forthright, if I'm any judge." Then, addressing the gladiator directly: "Why should I give you room in my house?"
Masgava's eyes locked on hers. "Because, domina, if you do not, the master here will be little more than a soft cheese with feet by the end of the year."
Fronto turned an indignant face to the big Numidian behind him, shocked at the sheer insubordination of which the man appeared capable. What he saw was the wide grin crease Faleria's face.
"I like him, Marcus. He's going to work you hard."
* * * * *
Fronto peered down the running track, trying to ignore the stares from the athletes oiling themselves. Next to him Masgava crouched, tying the single support bandage tight around the knee and knotting it below. The chilly morning air blew around parts of him that were rarely open to its caress, adding to his self-consciousness. He looked down at his slightly overweight form and sighed. Years of serving in the military had left him with a reasonable weathered tan on his arms and legs and face, but his torso and pelvis were almost translucent they were so pale, darkened only slightly by the hair. And even that was starting to go grey.
Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate Page 19