“I have kept you too long,” she said. “You may go.”
Valens continued to stand, his hands at his sides, his palms facing forward, with fingers slightly curled. “My job is to entertain with feats of combat. I show the Roman disdain for death and the virtue of courage in the face of adversity. Above all, I bring honor to my ludus, the gladiator school that trains me, and the place I have called home for the last eight years. I know nothing else, my lady. I see in your eyes that my answer disappoints.”
Phaedra did not deny his words. Yet he spoke with conviction and passion. What if his attention was set to other tasks? What might he accomplish then? “You sound as though you see yourself as little more than a trained beast, and that is your mistake. You are a man, capable of great achievements, greater even than your accomplishments in the arena.”
Valens dropped his gaze from hers. “I am not.”
“How can you not see who you are? What you have? You possess fame. Anything you ask for would be given to you, freely, gladly. You will never be forced to marry for money.” Phaedra pressed her lips together. She had not meant to engage in such a conversation.
“As a patrician you have a power all your own,” he said. “This city is bound to do your bidding.”
“As a woman I have no power of my own. Much like you, a slave with a master, I am the property of my family. It is almost as if I am invisible, unless my father needs something.”
“How can anyone not see you? For me,” said Valens, “you are like the brightest star in the sky.”
“You flatter me,” she said with a quick laugh, “and jest.”
Valens came to stand next to her; his body radiated heat. “See that,” he said. She lined up her gaze with his outstretched finger. He pointed to the single brightest star. “It is known as Polaris and is a fixed point in the sky. It shall be yours. Anytime you look at it from anywhere, you will know that you are seen.”
This man was a stranger to Phaedra, yet he had given her the most valuable gift she had ever received. In this moment, she existed. Yet she could think of nothing to say that would express her deep gratitude. “How is it that you know of stars?” she asked. Phaedra mentally groaned. Oh, the gods preserve her, that was the least charming thing said in the history of language.
“A sea captain told me of Polaris when I traveled aboard his vessel bound for Alexandria.”
“I have read of Alexandria and its white-pillared library, filled with more scrolls than one mind can comprehend. Did you see that during your travels?”
“There are many buildings such as you described. One of them may very well be the library. Yet I would not know.”
Of course. She doubted that Valens even knew how to read. He had gone to Egypt for fighting, not learning. Regardless of the reason, he had been! “It must have been thrilling—to travel, I mean.”
“I enjoy leaving Rome,” he said. “Has your father never taken you?”
“No,” said Phaedra, “I have yet to know the pleasure of leaving the city.”
“Perhaps one day you will sail to Egypt, and then you can tell me which one of the grand buildings is the library.”
“If my husband allows it,” she said. The delight of travels not yet taken disappeared like the dream they were. For Marcus, Phaedra might be nothing. She certainly was not the brightest star in the sky. The realization came crashing down upon her with all the force of the heavens. “I have enjoyed this moment with you, Valens Secundus. Thank you for the gift of Polaris. I think I will remember you long after this night has ended.”
“And I, you,” he said.
“I really should return,” she said. Like a tether around her middle, her duty to family and honor pulled her back to the villa. “Once you have gotten enough air, I hope you return to the party and enjoy the food and company.”
“This is a grand party,” said Valens. “I have attended many. Your father must love you very much. He spent a great deal of coin in simply hiring me.”
“My father loves a party; my marriage is secondary,” Phaedra said. “To him and to me.” Heat rose in her cheeks. She must stop sharing such details with the gladiator.
“You could ask to choose your own husband next time,” Valens said.
Phaedra knew he meant if she outlived Marcus. If she became a young widow, her father might try to marry her to an even more ancient man for even more money. But what if she asked for assurances for a marriage of her choice? Could she? Should she? The idea of asserting some control over her life by choosing her husband left her breathless. At the same time it made so much sense that Phaedra could hardly believe she had not thought to bargain with her father already.
In Rome, marriage defined a woman’s life. A married woman held the keys to the villa. She managed all the servants and slaves. Married women handled the household accounts. Even the clothes married women wore differed from those worn by unmarried women, divorced women, widows, or prostitutes. The matron’s stolla was the one piece of clothing every girl child aspired to wear. The long cloth was draped over her shoulder with the tail wrapped over her arm. Phaedra had already selected a shimmering silver stolla for tomorrow. But more than being a wife for all to see, Phaedra wanted a partner who loved and respected her. How different would this night be if her groom adored her? How might she view the rest of her life if she truly cared for her husband?
“You give me much to think on, Valens Secundus,” she said. “What of you? What would you do to change your fate?”
“Fortune smiles upon me already, my lady.”
Phaedra waved her veil at him. “That is far too safe an answer for a man who just now spoke of my new husband’s death. There must be something you want.”
“If I could, I would learn to read and write.”
“Why do you not? Then the next time you travel to Alexandria you could see the library for yourself.”
“There is no one at the ludus to teach me,” Valens said.
“The school’s owner, or his steward, must know how to read.”
He shrugged. “I might consider asking one of them for instructions.”
Valens had given her a rare and valuable gift. He deserved one in return. Yet she had nothing to give beyond her encouragement. Rising to her feet, Phaedra reached out her hand. “We shall bind ourselves to one another in a pledge to challenge the Fates.” She clasped Valens around the wrist and he gripped her in return. Her flesh tingled where his fingers wrapped around her arm. Phaedra’s pulse raced, fluttering at the base of her throat, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. “I shall ask for a choice in husbands should there come a time when I might marry again, and you shall ask for a tutor to teach you to read and write.”
Valens threw back his head and laughed. “When I fought earlier today, I worried for you, a lamb among wolves. You have a keen mind, my lady, and a larger set of balls than Jupiter himself. Pardon my language.”
“You worried for me when you fought?”
“I did. I saw you upon the terrace, a fresh and unformed flower among the withered sticks. Now I see my mistake.”
Phaedra tightened her grip on Valens’s arm and pulled. He hesitated a moment and then let her draw him closer. “It was you who suggested that I bargain for my next husband. I would never think of such a thing on my own.”
He closed the gap between them until they almost touched. “You would have, no doubt.”
So, this is desire. Two halves pulled to one another, damn the consequences. Heat collected in the space between their bodies until Phaedra’s skin felt too tight. She moved in, closer still. She looked up at Valens. His breath washed over her and she caught the scent of costmary, like balsa wood, mixed with leather, and salt from his skin. With it, an underlying smell Phaedra could not catalog and decided it was the aroma of a fit and virile man.
Valens lifted his hand. He held it a hairsbreadth from her face. He seemed to want to touch her but would not allow himself to do so. Even she, a sheltered patrician daughter, kne
w that gladiators should not touch aristocratic women, especially married virgins. She also knew that she should not crave his touch. Yet she did. More than a want, it was a need, like a need to draw breath. Leaning toward him just a bit, she placed her cheek in his palm.
He leaned toward her, his mouth close to hers. She ached to take this man inside her. It welled up from a primal place that existed before Phaedra, or Valens, or this garden, or even Rome herself. She longed to hold him, to caress him, to taste him, and to learn of all the ways men and women were different and yet complemented each other.
Phaedra hesitated. Outside of this place, and this moment, she belonged to Marcus. True, her husband had done nothing to deserve her affection or loyalty beyond providing her father with financial security. At the same time, he had done nothing to warrant an unfaithful wife, either. Could she dishonor their union as soon as it had begun?
In the darkened garden with the music of the fountain, who would know if she let the gladiator steal a kiss?
She would remember. She would know.
Phaedra stepped back, releasing Valens’s wrist. She ignored the veil as it slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground. “We are bound now to change our fate.”
He blinked at her several times, as if adjusting his eyes to a bright light. “Yes, my lady.”
“Since we are so bound”—she kept her voice bright and light, belying the sense of absolute loss within—“you must call me Phaedra.”
“Phaedra,” he said, his voice hoarse and smooth, deep as thunder.
She shuddered at the loneliness she heard there. Or perhaps it was the echo of her isolation.
“There you are.” A man’s voice came from behind them.
Phaedra and Valens took several steps apart as Acestes walked into the clearing by the fountain. “I have looked everywhere for you since you left the banquet. I fear I offended you by what I said.” He looked at Valens. “What are you doing here alone with her?”
Valens clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his eyes. The stance transformed him from a man with the desire to read and write and understand the inner workings of a fountain to a slave. Which, of course, he was. She felt the hot rush of anger at Acestes for bringing them back to reality.
“We met by accident while I walked through the garden,” she said, answering for them both. “Did you know that he has never fought at a wedding before? Do you think that will make my wedding better or worse? Better if it becomes the fashion, worse if it does not.”
Phaedra could not stop herself from rambling. Better that Acestes think her a fool than untrue. Thank the gods she had not given in to the temptation to kiss Valens. If she had, then Acestes would have discovered them in an embrace. Even her thoughts were so tangled together she could hardly parse one from the next.
“The gladiator does not belong here,” Acestes said.
Valens lifted his eyes. His look flashed with the same razor-sharp edge as his sword. Acestes saw it, too, and stepped back. Lifting his chest, Valens stood tall, his legs spread and braced. “Apologies if my presence offends.”
Phaedra knew that Valens did not feel the least sorry.
“Go to the kitchens, Gladiator,” Acestes said. “Have someone fetch guards from your ludus. It is time you returned home.”
“Only if the lady wishes it so. I need to see to her safety.”
“I am her family, one of her kind.” Acestes leaned toward the gladiator.
The air in the garden crackled with hostility. Phaedra could not allow an altercation. Acestes was a patrician. If Valens did him harm, he would violate one of Rome’s oldest and most sacred laws. Regardless of the reason or outcome of any fight, for Valens, a slave—property and not a man—the consequences would be severe. He would suffer torture, maiming, followed by a slow and agonizing death.
Lifting her hand to the left, Phaedra said, “The kitchens are over there.”
Valens looked at her once and then lowered his eyes. “Gratitude, my lady.”
Acestes placed his hand on Phaedra’s elbow and steered her back to the party. “You and I need to talk,” he said.
She glanced over her shoulder at the gladiator as they walked away. “Thank you,” she said.
Valens faded into the shadow of an orange tree, his figure a black form within the darkness. But even though she could no longer see his features, Phaedra glimpsed him holding her crimson bridal veil. Slowly, carefully he wrapped it around his wrist, covering the place she had held him when they bound themselves to one another and swore to change their fates.
Acestes said nothing as they walked through the garden and away from Valens. Once the lights of the house and the jumbled voices of her father’s guests poured onto the terrace, he stopped and turned to face her.
“What were you doing with the gladiator?” Acestes asked.
Phaedra’s mouth went dry. She had not kissed Valens, but she had encouraged him to hold her and had returned the embrace. That alone might cause her ruin. “I told you already.” She had hoped to sound annoyed with the question, or at least weary of the asking. Instead her voice came out too high and trembled slightly. She breathed in deeply and emptied her lungs slowly. “He was just about to leave when you arrived. I needed some time alone.”
“Alone? You were with the gladiator. Did you arrange to meet him?”
“I would never dishonor your uncle or myself in such a way,” she said. She put the sharp edge of outrage in her voice, and still she could not deny to herself that a part of her still craved the gladiator’s touch.
“Many women take gladiators as lovers. You would not be the first.”
Phaedra felt the argument shifting to her benefit. Surely Acestes would have accused her of wrongdoing if he had actually seen anything. “I am not many women. I tire of your insults and will once again take my leave.”
“Phaedra, wait.” Acestes placed his hand on her shoulder as she turned to go. “I have offended. I do not know what to say, because you intrigue me.”
“You cannot speak to me thus,” she said. Her heart beat fast in her chest. Phaedra had never dealt with a man of rank before. Her father had kept her hidden away behind the walls of the villa, allowing her to have a circle of suitable patrician girls for friends. For the first time she understood her disadvantage. She wanted to be rid of Acestes’s indictments and accusations and the very maleness of him. She slipped away from his grasp. Avoiding the villa and her drunken guests, she ran along the outer colonnade to her room, leaving Acestes standing alone.
Terenita sat on a stool, a single oil lamp burning on a table nearby. She stood when Phaedra entered. “My lady, I had begun to worry.”
“Thank you for your concern,” she said as she leaned her head onto Terenita’s shoulder. The maid stiffened under Phaedra’s touch. Terenita was a kind and gentle woman, but she kept a physical distance from everyone. As a child Phaedra was never offered an embrace upon waking or a hug that followed a skinned knee. Above all else, it was this lack of touch that kept Phaedra mindful of her position as mistress and of Terenita’s as slave. Phaedra stepped away, realizing that she had been foolish to expect that somehow her maid had suddenly become demonstrative. “I was overwhelmed and went for a walk in the garden,” she said. “Did you know that there is a fixed star in the heavens? Polaris, it is called. Sailors use it to navigate the seas.”
“I believe that the stars are really the spirits of our ancestors looking down upon us. But if you want me to believe that they are not, I shall.”
“No, Terenita. You can believe whatever you want,” Phaedra said with a small smile. She sat at her cosmetics table and rested her face upon the cool marble top.
Phaedra’s room had changed little since her childhood. A single bed, with a curved head and footboard, took up its middle. A table with a basin and pitcher for washing sat in one corner, with a reclining sofa covered in red silk at another. In order to make use of the bright Mediterranean sun, her cosmetics table and chair sat next to
the door that opened onto the garden. A cabinet that usually held her clothes and jewels stood on one side of the door that led to the villa, with a small altar on the other. Clay figures of various goddesses and one of Phaedra’s mother sat atop the wooden altar. Candles burned in sconces high on the wall, bathing the room in a weak golden light.
“Shall I take down your hair, my lady?” Terenita asked. “The board holding your bun in place must be pulling by now.”
“Thank you,” Phaedra said as she lifted her head. Picking up a palm frond, she slowly fanned her face as the maid unwound her hair. Even in the scant light, she saw the flowers arranged on the small tables set throughout her room, rose petals on her bed, and a large basket of fruit near her reclining sofa. At least her chamber had been decorated correctly with symbols of fertility. Perhaps when Marcus arrived they would participate in the ritual of touching fire and water while pledging to be together through every extremity.
“My room looks beautiful,” she said to Terenita.
“I hoped it would please you, my lady. Without you having either mother or aunt, I took the liberty to make sure you were treated like the lovely bride you are.”
“You are mother and aunt to me,” Phaedra said. The words came out thin as a thread, emotion having all but stolen her voice. She wiped away a tear and remembered that Terenita loved her for who she really was, even if no one else cared for her beyond what she might give, or be, for them.
“I almost forgot,” said Terenita. “Your father came looking for you earlier. He will be back directly.”
Phaedra’s throat closed. “What did he want?”
Before Terenita could answer, three loud knocks came from the closed bedchamber door. It opened without invitation. Her father stood on the threshold, his white toga gleaming in the candlelight. “Where have you been?” he asked.
Had Acestes, the serpent, told her father about finding Phaedra alone with Valens? Or had someone else spied them? That thought made her ill. Phaedra gripped tighter to the armrests. “Where do you think I have been?” she asked, deciding instead to see what her father knew.
The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) Page 3