“I must return,” she said.
“I will call on you tomorrow, then.”
Little good it would do to refuse Acestes. Phaedra, once again, had no power of her own.
Chapter 19
Valens
Sleep never claimed Valens. Clear childhood memories came to him of his mother. He remembered dancing through their one-room apartment, both of them laughing and singing. He also recalled being awakened in the middle of the night to the sounds of his mother’s rutting in the next bed. She was desperate for the love of a man—even as a small boy he had understood that. In her last paramour, his mother thought she had found it. Yet that man had taken her life.
All of his regrets circled back to Antonice. She was a puzzle of her own. Charming when she wanted something, spiteful if denied anything. So far, the only young man she had associated with was Damian. Yet, now that Valens had ended that relationship, what would Antonice do? Next time, what kind of man would she choose?
The room was shrouded in dark as he rose from bed. Lighting a taper, he sat at a table that overlooked the garden. He unrolled a scroll of writings by the recently deceased Gaius Lucilius. It was one of his earlier works, written after the Numantine War fifty years prior. Yet, like all of Lucilius’s work, it was a scathing commentary on all tiers of Roman society. Valens hoped for some inspiration of what might be best for Antonice and found only one answer: marriage.
True, Antonice could not marry Damian or any other patrician. But Valens planned to offer a generous dowry when the time came for her to marry. Enough coin would help attract reasonable suitors. Although Valens had always imagined her wedding taking place in the future, now timing seemed of the essence.
The sun had been up less than an hour when a knock sounded at his door. “Come in,” he said.
The steward entered. “Begging your pardon, dominus. You have a visitor.”
Valens’s eyes burned from lack of sleep. His neck ached from having sat in a chair all night. He smelled of sweat and mud and ash. Perhaps it was Damian, the patrician turd.
“Tell whomever it is that I am indisposed,” he said as he rose to his feet and stretched.
“I tried,” said the steward, “but he will not be dissuaded. It is General Acestes, newly returned to Rome. He waits for you in the tablinum.”
Valens gave a weary sigh. The meeting with General Acestes was a nuisance and would follow a predictable pattern. Most likely Acestes had seen Valens defeat another gladiator in Padua or Capua or Carthage or Rome. The general would ask many questions about how it had felt or what he thought during a particular fight.
It happened all the time.
Valens hoped he recalled something of the specific match and could add to the conversation. Otherwise he would have to rely on some well-practiced lies he had developed over time.
I thought of how blessed I have been by the Fates to have such an opportunity to entertain the crowds of the republic and celebrate the glory of Rome.
He would never tell the truth. He would never say, I wondered who forced this poor, dumb bastard into the arena with me. If he were any sort of man, he would be in here and not in the stands screaming for blood. For that matter, if you were a man, you would have been in the arena, too. Real men do their own killing. What is your excuse?
Valens entered the office from the garden door. A man he assumed to be the general sat behind the table Valens used as a desk, his sandaled feet propped up on the wood. The man’s bearing seemed familiar, although Valens did not remember meeting the great General Acestes. He had heard his name used many times in connection with the harsh and decisive treatment meted out during the Sicilian slave uprising a few years past.
Then Valens recalled.
On another night, in another lifetime, he had first seen this man. Yes, it was the same aristocratic bastard who had come upon him in the garden on the night of Phaedra’s wedding. He was also the same arrogant man who had arrived on horseback at Marcus’s funeral.
Acestes looked over his shoulder and waved a lazy hand. “I want no food or drink. Go and tell that ancient steward to hurry up and fetch your master.”
For too many years Valens had lived as a slave and an instinctual, “Yes, my lord,” nearly escaped his lips. Instead, he stopped the words before they tumbled out of his mouth. Without obviously moving, he clenched his fists so tight that his fingernails dug into his palms. He breathed in and out, releasing first his fists and then all other tension as well.
Acestes looked again. “Did you not hear me?”
“I heard you. Now get out of my chair.”
The general swiveled around and narrowed his eyes. “Ah, it is you. It is a funny thing to see Valens Secundus and not recognize him. You were famous once.”
“You are in my home and asked to see me.”
Acestes turned his back to Valens. “We met once, a few years ago. I doubt you recall.”
“Your uncle’s wedding,” said Valens. “I recall.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Acestes said, “Come to the front of the desk. I shall injure my neck for trying to speak to you while you lurk behind me.”
Valens thought of lifting the chair and dumping the general on his ass, but he hesitated. Until he knew why the general wanted to see him, he decided cordiality was the best stratagem. He moved as requested, and for a moment he was not quite sure whether to sit or lean on the desk.
He decided instead to adopt a stance he had used many times before fights in the arena. Legs spread, braced against the floor to engage the thigh muscles. He kept his arms at his side, but chest and back taut. The result was a figure that looked imposing, if not menacing. Until he knew what Acestes wanted, appearing a bit dangerous seemed like a good stratagem, too.
“You recall my uncle’s wedding, do you?”
“I fought at a single wedding—his.”
“Then you may have heard my Uncle Marcus went to his reward in Elysium not long ago.”
Valens nodded. “Along with all of Rome, I grieve with you.”
“A man as great as he deserves to have a grand set of fights to honor his life.”
Ah, so that was what the general wanted. Valens had been asked before, many times, to return to the arena. Just this once. The coin offered would be ample. Yet he knew, without even hearing the amount, what his answer would be. Never would enough coins be minted or enough gold mined to entice him back to the games.
After he won his freedom, Valens had decided to live an honorable life as a tribute to all the men he had slain. Going back into the arena, for any reason, would cheapen the sacrifice made by them all.
“I plan to sponsor those games,” said the general. “That is why I have come to see you.”
“I see.”
Acestes said nothing for a moment. He rested his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together. “Your sister, Antonice, lives with you.”
The question, too obscure to be random, chilled Valens. Gooseflesh sprang up on his arms. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I returned to Rome yesterday,” the general said.
“How does that concern me and my sister?”
“There has been an upsetting development. It deals with a friend of your sister’s, Damian.”
Valens said nothing. What had the two of them done? His fingers trembled and he clasped his hands behind his back.
“Damian serves the republic by working with the legionary offices in Rome,” said Acestes.
“The quartermaster’s clerk, if I recall.”
Acestes nodded. “For some time the quartermaster has noticed his coffers coming up short. Not by much, but enough. Accounting mistakes happen and a certain loss is to be expected. But this happened consistently, and only when Damian had access. Then the quartermaster heard about some jewelry Damian had purchased for your sister. I was informed of this last evening, not long after I arrived in the city.”
Valens’s legs began to shake. Acestes had not come to ask him to return
to the arena. He had come to take Antonice into custody. Reaching for a chair, Valens sat down hard. He should have wondered where Damian had found coin for such expensive gifts. If he had been a better brother, he would have asked. In his ignorance, Valens had failed.
“You are here,” said Valens as he fought to remain in control of his emotions, “to arrest my sister.” Thievery was a capital offense, punishable by death during the next set of gladiatorial games. Over the course of his career, Valens had witnessed horrible executions—criminals tied to the backs of raging bulls or torn apart by starving lions. Sometimes the condemned fought one another, the victor being forced to fight battle after battle until he finally died. Valens understood that merciless sentences carried out for all to see provided public lessons in lawlessness and obedience. Still, it was incomprehensible that Antonice would become such an example.
The world might know him as Valens Secundus, Rome’s champion, but he was a just a man with no other family beyond his sister. Without her, he would be alone.
As he had done before, he would save her. But how? She surely would not be spared if he stood by, frozen with indecision.
Valens needed to fight for his sister, preferring the option of pummeling the general to arguing with him. But laying hands upon one of the patrician class was also a capital offense, and it would do his sister little good if he were executed, too.
“What does my sister have to do with Damian’s deed?” he asked. “How could she have known where the money came from? Is Damian to be executed in the arena, too?”
Acestes shook his head. “His father and I made an arrangement. Damian swears that the money he took was ill-gotten by the quartermaster, although the guilty usually lie to save themselves. Damian left this morning for the legions. If he survives seven years in the wilds of Germania, he will be a changed man.”
“You take my sister to die, and he has a chance at life and redemption? She did not even steal anything, ill-gotten or not.”
“The law is clear. Anyone involved is guilty, and Damian’s father has sworn that he stole at her behest.”
“Damian is young. But he is a man, not a child goaded into sneaking a sweet from the kitchens. I cannot believe that he would be so susceptible to anyone else’s influence.”
“I have found that beautiful women can be quite convincing.”
Valens could think of nothing to say.
“I have always admired you and your career,” Acestes continued. “I am sorry it had to come to this.”
“If you are sorry, let her go. She is a child.”
“I cannot allow your sister to go free since I already granted a pardon to Damian. I plan to run for co-consul, and people expect to see justice.”
Justice? Acestes allowed Damian, the thief, to join the legions while sending Antonice, the accomplice, to the arena. Where was the justice in that?
Valens despised all patricians. Damian’s lineage determined his fate, just as Antonice’s family determined hers. Valens had little to offer in return for his sister’s life. He had money, but not enough. Even if he gave the general his last coin, it would not be enough.
“It pains me to do this. But I am the highest-ranking officer in Rome now. This is an army matter, and as I said, I must consider how all of this looks to the voters.”
Of course, courting the voters mattered more to Acestes than the life of a single person.
Acestes stood. He squeezed Valens on the shoulder and walked to the door.
“Wait.” Valens moved toward the general before realizing he had even gotten up. “I will fight in your opening primus. The crowd still loves me, and they will love you for bringing me back to them.”
Acestes stopped and stood for a moment with his back to Valens. “These games will last five days. The plebs would forget you by the end. One fight would not suffice. I am sorry.”
Funeral games, like the one Acestes planned to sponsor, might last only a day or two. The grander, more expensive games sometimes lasted for more than a week. In that time several fights would take place each and every day. Lesser gladiators fought in the morning. Executions took place at noon. More experienced gladiators fought in the afternoon, saving the main fight, or primus, for the end of the day. Most gladiators fought only once during a series of games due to the physicality and brutality of each combat. Oftentimes injuries received were severe and could require months of medical attention. If by chance a gladiator remained unscathed, he was exhausted. Either way, it was impossible to rest and recover in time to face another challenger in just a few days.
Yet he would be fighting for his sister. What did Valens care about a few more bruises compared to saving her life?
“Three times,” said Valens. “I will fight for you three times. I can take to the arena on opening day, sometime in the middle of the games, and on the final day.”
Acestes turned to face Valens. “You are saying that I can bring Valens Secundus back to the arena for three fights?” He pressed his thumbnail onto his lips. Valens imagined that the general tabulated how many votes he would lose for allowing a thief to go free compared to how many he would gain for bringing back Rome’s champion. At length, the general said, “All the fights will be to the death, not just to first blood, or winner chosen for exceptional valor or skill. You must win thrice. If you die, then I will have no choice but to enforce your sister’s execution.”
Valens wanted to argue. But he had no advantage. All he could do was defend, maintain, and hope that perseverance saw him through, as it had so many other times before. “Agreed.”
“I decide whom you fight and under what conditions,” said Acestes.
Valens hesitated. He had witnessed many cruel and uneven fights in his life. “As long as I am armed; equally matched; and my opponent is not a lion, bull, or some other type of starving beast.”
Acestes sighed and Valens wondered what twisted combat the general might have planned. “Agreed.”
“You must also leave my sister in my care. I refuse to fight if she is taken from this home.”
“How do I know that you will not remove her from the city?”
“How do I know that you plan to keep your word and set her free later?”
“Pity you are only a pleb,” Acestes said as he held out his hand. “You have a good bit of a deal-making politician in you.”
“There is one thing more. Antonice’s part in all of this must be kept secret.” Accusations such as this had the power to ruin her reputation, her life.
Acestes withdrew his hand. “That is a stipulation to which I cannot agree. In order to make this arrangement work for me, I must appear benevolent and shrewd.”
“But Antonice will suffer her entire life from this stain.”
“I have but two things to say to you. First, she should have thought of the consequences before committing the crime. Second, I sincerely do not care what happens to your sister. If you want to save her life, this will be public. If you do not, the reason why she is executed will be known as well.”
Valens could not recall hating a person more than he hated Acestes at that moment. Yet all of the sordid details being made public could work to Valens’s advantage. If all of Rome knew their bargain, then Acestes would be forced to keep his word and set Antonice free if Valens, indeed, won.
“We are agreed, then?” asked Acestes.
The two men grabbed each other’s wrists.
“We are agreed,” said Valens.
Chapter 20
Phaedra
Phaedra sat at her cosmetics table and listened as the bells marking the hour rang out ten times. The morning, not half-gone, and already she was weary of the day. Phaedra had spent the last four years as a wife and the domina of her own villa in Pompeii. She loved that city with its clean, fresh air and waves that lapped the shoreline. Here, in her father’s villa and in Rome, nothing interested her. Most of her girlhood friends had a child or two, making their lives very different from hers. Besides, Phaedra felt her
own lack of offspring keenly enough without spending time with living, breathing reminders.
“Excuse me, my lady,” said Terenita. “You have a visitor. General Acestes is here to see you.”
Like a thick gray fog, melancholia swirled around Phaedra. She had done little with her day and was still overtired. If Acestes asked her for anything, would she have the strength to refuse? “Tell him I am unwell.”
“Your father sends me, my lady, and requires you meet the general in the garden.”
“I suppose it would do no good to tell Father that I am unwell, also,” she said.
“I think not, my lady,” said Terenita. “It is a beautiful day. The sunshine might help to improve your mood.”
“It might,” she said, although Phaedra doubted it very much.
A patio of white stone and mortar spread out from the villa’s garden door to its dining room, a new addition since she had lived in her father’s villa last. In the middle of the patio, as if it sprang from the rock itself, stood a fragrant tree. Acestes sat on a bench, also new, in the shade of the tree. He made room for Phaedra as she approached.
Once settled, she looked around the garden. No servant stood nearby waiting to bring them a chalice of water or a plate of bread. No slave trimmed the roses back so they might bloom again this year. Her father had arranged this moment of privacy, no doubt. Yet she spied him inside the villa, resting on a reclining sofa that sat near an open set of doors. So Phaedra and Acestes were not exactly alone.
“I spent my morning arranging the games I am sponsoring to honor my uncle. They begin in less than a week,” Acestes said as a way of greeting.
Marcus had cared little for the games. Still, she said, “He would be pleased.”
“Do the games please you?”
“I have not seen a fight since my wedding day. Watching men bludgeon each other for sport clouds my conscience.”
The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) Page 13