by Lydia Pax
His contacts had put him into discussions with the grifter because Vahram had illustrated that he needed someone who could hire men for him. Strong men. Able men. Imposing men.
“What is it you’re looking for, exactly?”
In the darkness of the alley, it was hard to make out either man’s face. Vahram wore a hood of a dark granite color over a tunic of the same color, embroidered with red stitching. The grifter’s thick hair waved in the gentle breeze. He wore a tunic of his own, a deep green in color. It was sleeveless, revealing the heavy mass of his upper arms and the many scars detailing his shoulders.
“I need two men,” said Vahram. “Disposable sorts. The kind who can get hurt and no questions are raised. No soldiers. No gladiators.”
“I see. What do you want them to do?”
“One is just a man with a knife. He’ll be handy with it. He’ll know how to spot a legionary in the crowd.”
“And the other?”
“I want an actor.”
The grifter seemed surprised. “What sort of actor?”
“It doesn’t matter the kind.” Vahram shook his head. “Just an actor who can act. Someone who will pretend to be someone else for money.”
“The knife man is easy. I will inquire as to the actor. That will take time. For how long do you need them?”
“Indefinitely.”
The grifter raised an eyebrow. Vahram could tell he was trying to put together what the need for these people was. If he could figure it out, great, but otherwise, Vahram had no inclination to tell him.
“I see. I can do this. All of this. But it will cost you.”
Vahram produced two bars of silver from his tunic and held them out for the man. The grifter made to snatch them, and Vahram held up a hand.
“One now. The other upon procurement.”
The grifter nodded and took his bar, eyeing it greedily.
Soon enough, the Princess Leda would come out of the ludus.
His contacts had let him know she left the ludus once or twice a week, usually to visit a messenger’s service nested deep in the city. He would wait and watch for her. There was time. If she only came in the morning, then he would go in the morning.
Money was not an issue for Vahram. In his travels, he had started with a substantial sum and had managed to amass something of a small fortune in Roman coin since. If it wasn’t all so heavy, he would have had more. Still, plenty to pay this grifter for however much time he needed.
It was an easy thing for Vahram—who looked so respectable—to take in unsuspecting travelers on the road. And like Vahram, they had all traveled with their money. Sometimes they carried only a little, and sometimes a lot, but after he killed them, all their money and goods all belonged to him.
“You’ll have them by tomorrow,” said the grifter. “How’s that?”
“That will work nicely,” said Vahram. “Thank you. Make the arrangements and tell them to meet me tomorrow at midday. Ensure they are on time. I have special instructions.”
“It would save you time if I simply relayed the instructions for you.”
“Perhaps. How much time does it save you to do as I say?”
The grifter smiled. “Very well. It was only a suggestion. You’ll see them at midday.”
Chapter 17
“This ludus is on its last legs,” said Publius. He stared into the small yard of the peristylium, his hands crossed behind his back. “I think you well know that.”
Leda nodded gently. “I know that you worry about it, Dominus.”
Publius liked to meet here, watching Marius play in the garden. It seemed to calm or please him somehow to look after the boy. For all his severe lack of sentiment, Publius had taken a tender hand with Marius. Leda could appreciate that.
He still corrected the boy sternly when he made mistakes, and made sure that his education was enforced strictly, but he took time every day to spend an hour or two with the child.
Sometimes, he idly talked of finding a proper wife again so as to ensure that Marius had a decent home to grow up in. But always that talk would devolve, as it did now, into the trouble the ludus was in.
“I do.” He nodded. “In a month’s time, there will be another session of games in the arena. We must ensure that our house is featured prominently there. The Governor of Puteoli has agreed to attend a party at this house in less than a week. His appearance here is our opportunity to show him that our gladiators are the most spectacular in all of Rome.” He shook his head. “They are not, of course, but you understand.”
“Yes, Dominus,” said Leda.
Conall would have hated to have been referred to as less than spectacular, she knew. But she held her tongue—and did her honest best to push thoughts of him away from her consciousness. Down that road was guilt and regret.
“As such, the party needs supplies. That means wine. And that means—”
“That means you want me to settle the dispute with Olonius.”
Publius turned sharply at her interruption. No doubt he was thinking some sharp line about social ladders again.
“Forgive me, Dominus.” Her eyes met the floor. “My mouth runs ahead of my mind at times.”
“See that it loses the race from now on.” He turned again, watching Marius bang his toys together. “At any rate, yes. You are correct. This mess with him has gone on long enough. Promise him our business in the future if he shall drop the suit. I’ve arranged for you to be carrying a certain amount of silver to settle some of the debt. Take care not to let it be stolen.”
Olonius sold the best wine in Puteoli. What they had been drinking at the ludus for the last several months—since Publius had defaulted on the loan that Olonius had made Porcia—was the lowest form of Egyptian swill. Leda flavored it heavily with citrus to keep the worst of the taste from her throat.
Sometimes it worked.
“You don’t wish to look after this matter yourself, Dominus?”
“Are you not equal to the task?”
“Yes, Dominus. It’s only…Olonius might think it an insult if you settle the matter with a slave instead of doing it personally.”
“Olonius is a merchant.” Publius straightened his chin. I was born above him. I do not need to settle anything with such a man personally, and it is more than time that was made clear.”
“Yes, Dominus.”
“Moreover—you’re a princess. Princesses are supposed to be noble and diplomatic. So noble away. Diplomat away.” He walked from his position watching Marius to a small pillar beside an unlit brazier. “Do this for me, and I shall show you the contents of this.”
Leda’s breath caught. What Publius revealed was a scroll sealed with the insignia of her family.
“Dominus!” she rose, walking toward the scroll with her hand out.
He shook his head, snatching it away. “No. When the job is done. Then you get your letter. Not before. Do you understand?”
Of course she did.
Chapter 18
On his first morning back in training, Conall rose earlier than any other man. The second the guards opened the blocks to the cell gates, he rushed out and started his lap around the grounds. He made three in near-darkness, the sun not yet totally over the walls of the ludus, before picking up the Hell Log.
The Hell Log was an old log instituted into the ludus by the doctore before Murus. It was thick and round, roughly the same size as Conall’s torso. Awkward to carry and heavy to hold, it was made even heavier by thick bands of iron bolted into it on either end. Over the years, the bark had all been peeled off and sanded down, if only to keep gladiators from scraping their bodies—which had to be in perfect condition before combat.
The end result was a frightfully dense load. Murus enjoyed punishing insubordinate or lazy gladiators by making them run with the Hell Log on their shoulders.
Conall liked to train in the mornings by running a few extra laps with the Hell Log on his shoulders. It was a good way to build his endurance up and m
ade him feel like he was doing more than the other gladiators. If he wasn’t exhausted at the end of the day, he felt like he wasn’t training hard enough.
He took three laps with the hell log before the other gladiators started filing out from the cell blocks. Conall usually got six. He had a lot of improvement to make.
One of the fighters was Diocles, a murmillo. He was talented and large, with the sort of build and look that Publius liked. Clean-cut chin. Broad chest. And tall, of course, with every inch filled in by solid, hard muscle. As such, he had been given a great deal of special attention by Publius. His matches were chosen carefully to ensure he held the advantage, and slowly but surely Publius built a legend around him. He wanted Diocles to be the showcase of the ludus.
Conall despised the man.
The dislike wasn’t based on Diocles being unskilled. Under the tutelage of Murus and the other doctores, he was as able as man with an ounce of natural talent would be. It was the doctore’s job to cultivate ability.
“Look who’s returned to us,” said Diocles. He had picked up a training sword and shield from a rack next to the wall of the cell blocks. “It’s little Pertinax.”
“Hello, Diocles.”
A few of his cronies—other murmillos—gathered up behind him. They had the same smarmy look on their faces as Diocles did, in the way that dogs would start barking just from hearing another dog do the same a mile away. They were born followers following a born leader in Diocles. The man had a charisma to him that was hard to deny, but it was steeped in deep-rooted meanness.
“Perhaps you’ll spar with me today, at long last. I promise I won’t break your ribs like that chump from Napoli.”
The “chump” from Napoli had been in more fights than Diocles. But to say that would have been taking Diocles’s bait.
“Have Murus change the rules of training,” he said instead, “and I’ll spar you all day long.”
“What is it about all you German trash that makes you want thrashing so bad?” Diocles was directly in his face now. “You haven’t even been back a day and you’re already begging to fight me.”
Standard bullying procedure, mixing words around and trying to create an argument where there had not been one before.
“I don’t know, Diocles. What is it about Greek trash that makes you so tempting to hit?” He sniffed loud. “Is it your smell?”
They stood nose to nose now. Dry timber was all they were, waiting for a stray spark to set them off. The need to hit this man filled Conall—to hit him and drive him into the ground until he couldn’t get up again without help.
His short-temper that day wasn’t about Diocles, not truly. Even that much was not lost on him. He was mad at himself for driving Leda away. Over and over again, all he could think was how he had been so close—so damnably close—only to send her packing.
Would he ever have a conversation with her again?
Would he ever feel her hands upon his body again?
Would he ever have his hands upon her again?
There was no way to know, and he had to assume that he wouldn’t.
So. Why not pick a fight with Diocles? Certainly, there was a man who could use a few good knocks to the head.
Normally the gladiators from a given ludus shared a certain camaraderie. They were brothers-in-arms. There was the understanding, however harsh or ugly, that they all rose and fell together. If their fellow gladiators died in the arena, then they would all start to lose money and status—and have less chances for glory in the arena.
One gladiator might be brutal in his methods of hazing, torturing novices until they proved themselves worthy in the arena, but it was all for what he perceived as a common good—to weed out weakness and ensure that only strength arrived on the sands.
But Conall was a gladiator proven more than a dozen times over. It broke the bounds of what decency gladiators had to pick a fight with a veteran—and this made Conall mad.
They were all trying to live together; there was no benefit in acting as if they lived apart.
“Gladiators!”
Murus’s voice boomed across the sand. Instinctively, Conall stepped back—a trained motion from years of obeying Murus’s voice. And as he did, Diocles popped his head forward and banged their temples together. Conall, furious now, shoved Diocles back into his crowd of followers. Diocles took a swing, but Murus was there to catch his fist.
Diocles looked a bit surprised at Murus’s ability to simply catch his hand mid-swing. Conall knew the old doctore was quicker and stronger than he looked. An older man with silver hair and hard leather skin, nearing fifty years of age, his shape was a square of muscle.
“Take the Hell Log,” said Murus. His voice like crackling thunder. “The both of you. You’ll stop running when I get tired.”
Diocles looked despondent. Hiding a grin, Conall picked up the log again and held it out for Diocles to grab it with him.
Conall’s goal was to be able to run all day to get back in good fighting shape. This was as good a way as any.
“Just don’t slow me down,” said Conall.
Chapter 19
At midday, after lunch, Conall was informed that he was to eschew the rest of the day’s training in order to go to the market as part of his new bodyguard work. It wasn’t until he arrived at the gates and saw Leda’s lovely form clothed in a dark blue stola that he realized that she was the slave he was supposed to bodyguard.
“Is it just the two of us?” he asked her.
She frowned, looking past him for a moment. “I suppose so. Usually they send a soldier with me.”
Conall shrugged. “I suppose I am cheaper than a soldier.”
Leda raised an eyebrow, as if to say she would let that pass without comment.
The two of them had not spoken since their last discussion. Their fight? Could it be called that?
Conall was inclined to agree with her, and so it was difficult to call it a fight. He wasn’t of her class. The difference was that he didn’t want that to matter like she apparently did.
Some flashes of anger still existed in him at the conflict. Most of these were at himself and his idiot mouth, unable to hold his tongue in place. But any annoyances were overtaken by being in her presence once again.
Her hair swayed gently in the wind. The stola she wore hugged tight to her hips. Her cheeks were colored from the heat of the day.
Gods, she’s lovely.
“Shall we go?” he asked.
“Very well,” she said, her voice cool. “But I should inform you that my position remains the same. Nothing that happens today will change that.”
A sharp stab slipped up his guts. He nodded. “Of course, Princess.”
“I don’t want to be hurtful. Only clear.”
Again, he nodded, and she started out the gate.
If that was how she didn’t want to be hurtful, Conall mused, he’d hate to have been on the wrong side of her when she did.
Chapter 20
“I don’t trust the House Varinius. I want you to tell him that.”
“Certainly.”
“You’ll have the wine. But he still owes me for the rest. That’s the deal, right?”
“Yes, Olonius.” Leda tapped the scroll. “It’s all right here. An official document. I’ll send it to the imperial legal offices in town and have them record it. The debts will be official.”
This had been a sticking point for many of Porcia’s debts. With her charm and beauty—which apparently she had much of, as that was all the men (and they were always men) that she borrowed from remembered about her—Porcia was able to connive several lusty merchants into giving her loans without ever recording them on paper.
This meant that when it came time to collect, it was simply her word against the debtor, which was harder to prove in court. No doubt that had been part of her strategy all along.
At first, Publius had been disinclined to pay such debts, saying there was little legal precedent for him to do so. And Pub
lius, if anything, was a stickler for precedent. Then, however, all those debtors stopped providing him with any new supplies—and so now Leda stood in the street in front of Olonius’s small taberna where he sold the finest wine in Puteoli.
“You’ve put a good name to your Dominus today.” Olonius jingled the bag of coin that Leda had brought him and leered up and down at Leda’s form. “Polite. Pretty, too. Are you for sale?”
There was nothing more to say. The scroll was signed and the money taken.
“We’ll expect the wine on the day of the party. I’ve written you a reminder for the order.” She handed over another scroll. “Good afternoon, Olonius.”
Outside, Conall waited for her. He was not wearing a shirt, which meant that his body was displayed heavily. That was very unfair in her mind. All his best features were on his body. The heavy line of abdominals, stacked like bricks. The broad expanse of his chest, every inch hard and powerful. The rippling forms of his arms, so utterly capable of gripping her most vulnerable, lust-hungry parts.
She stepped back into the bustle of the street, pushing the ugly, leering look of the merchant from her mind. Conall looked at her with plenty of want, and often, but at least he had the decency to carry the looks as if he hoped she would carry them back. To that merchant, she had been little more than window dressing for the afternoon.
“It went well, I hope?” he asked.
“Yes. Naturally. I’m good at my job, Conall.”
“I expect you are. You’re a smart woman.”
It was dangerous to speak with him. She was reminded quickly as to why she hadn’t for such a long time. Everything she said to him turned into some manner of compliment about herself. It was rather shameless, leaving openings for him like that. It was like she wanted to hear him say nice things to her.
Which she most certainly did not. She was a princess.
The city of Puteoli was famous for its massive port. Rome and its empire depended upon the free flow of grain to feed its citizens, with most every denizen depending on the grain dole to feed themselves and their families. That grain came in huge portions from Sicily and Egypt, and the grain produced there arrived almost exclusively in Puteoli.