The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome)

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  “Then perhaps I have something you might find more pleasing.” Acestes retrieved a small wooden box from the folds of his tunic. “Open it,” Acestes said. “I bought it for you.”

  “I should not.”

  “I insist,” said Acestes. He held the box toward her.

  Phaedra kept her hands in her lap.

  “May I?” he asked after they had sat a moment too long. He opened the lid.

  Inside the box lay a necklace on a silk cushion. An emerald the size of a grape hung from several entwined chains. The thick strands of gold and silver captured the morning sun, projecting it throughout her father’s garden, its refraction leaving her all but blind. It was stunning and yet Phaedra knew that by accepting the gift, she also accepted Acestes as her next husband.

  “I first saw this emerald in a North African market,” said Acestes, “and I wondered which was the more beautiful, you or the stone.”

  “It is lovely,” she said. “Thank you for the compliment and for bringing the necklace here for me to see.”

  Acestes undid the pins that held the necklace in place and held it up. “This is yours, Phaedra, if you would have it.”

  “You do me great honor, but I cannot accept such a generous gift.”

  His eyes narrowed and the muscle in his cheek flexed. Phaedra felt rage rolling off him like heat from a fire, and yet when he spoke, his voice was without enmity. “I hate to think that you would refuse a gift from me. I might take the rejection personally.”

  A spurned suitor made the worst kind of enemy. Phaedra, who cared little for politics and intrigue, still knew enough to handle him with care. He clasped his large hand around hers. Both of them held the jewel, and Phaedra no longer saw her own fingers. She tried to pull her hand away, but he held tight. A sparrow fluttered above her head, taking shelter in a gap between two broken roof tiles. Ah, to be the bird and fly away or take refuge in a small, hidden place.

  Her father rose from his reclining sofa and limped toward them, dragging his swollen left foot. Gout stretched the flesh, turning it yellow and then purple as the sandal’s thongs bit into his skin. “What have you, my dear?”

  His question fooled no one. He had heard every word and had watched every moment. Her father had come to intervene before the conversation became a quarrel. And most likely to lend his support to Acestes.

  Acestes let go and Phaedra found herself holding the necklace.

  “Nothing, Father,” she said. “Acestes has shown me a piece of jewelry.”

  “Senator Scaeva, I am actually trying to give this necklace to your daughter as a gift. I hope she will agree to wear it at the gladiatorial games I am sponsoring in my uncle’s honor.”

  “It has been so long since I have seen any decent gladiators,” said her father. “Valens Secundus—now there is a true man of the sword.”

  Phaedra’s pulse resonated at the base of her throat, and her stomach tightened at the mention of Valens’s name.

  “Funny you should mention him,” Acestes said. “I am planning a surprise that you might very well like, then.”

  “What kind of surprise?” she asked, although she knew better than to show any interest in Valens when Acestes might notice.

  Acestes lifted one eyebrow. “You need to attend if you want to find out.”

  “There is no way we could miss the games, is there, my dear? Especially ones which honor Marcus,” said her father.

  The thought of Valens wavered and vanished. As she feared, her father had chosen Acestes’s side over hers. She bristled at his disloyalty to family. But Phaedra could not fight her father, Acestes, and the laws of Rome all at once. Forcing a pleasant smile on to her face, Phaedra responded, “If it is for my late husband’s memory, then I must attend.”

  “Good. And you will accept my gift?”

  “I simply could not.” She held it out again, offering it to Acestes. He drew his brows together and took the necklace.

  Her father moved closer and sniffed as if the jewel gave off a scent. “It is beautiful, Phaedra, my dear. I am sure it cost Acestes a good bit of coin. The least you can do is to let him see it on you.”

  “Father, I should not.”

  “No argument. Turn.” He drew a circle in the air with his finger.

  Phaedra twisted in her seat, leaving her unprotected back to Acestes. He slipped the necklace around her neck. Somehow it felt heavier than it had in her hand, and colder, too.

  Acestes clasped the ends together and rested his palms on her shoulders. “You are the more beautiful of the two.”

  “To whom do you speak?” She asked as she turned to face him, “Me or the emerald?”

  “You must know that I am fond of you, Phaedra.” Acestes reached for her hand. She did not pull away. He stroked her wrist with the tips of his fingers. “Marry me.”

  This man was a master of manipulation. By proposing in front of her father, Acestes was certain to secure her agreement. Both men stared at Phaedra as they waited for her answer. She knew what they expected her to say, and yet she found that she could not.

  “My official eight days of mourning ended only yesterday. I cannot make such a decision. Not now.”

  “I understand,” said Acestes. “But nothing prevents your father from deciding for you.”

  Her father nodded in approval. “You are used to being in charge of your own home. Besides, it is time that you have a husband with whom you can have a child.”

  “Is it done, then?” she asked. “Have you accepted a proposal without consulting me?”

  “Do not cast your father into the fires of Tarsus,” said Acestes. “I had spoken to him about my offer of marriage. He explained that you have the right to choose your next husband, just as you told me last night.”

  At least her father had remembered his promise.

  “But I urge you to take this proposal very seriously,” her father said. “This marriage is to your advantage.”

  Her advantage? Being forced into marriage was never to a woman’s advantage. Having a powerful general for a son-in-law, being related to the consul, would certainly benefit her father.

  True, as the wife of a consul, Phaedra would be one of the most celebrated women in Rome. Still, if she were to have that life, it would be of her own choosing.

  Phaedra shook her head. “I cannot.”

  “Cannot marry me, or cannot decide?” Acestes asked.

  “I am not sure.”

  Acestes stood, his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “I should go. The preparations for the games are pressing.”

  Her father held up his hands and stepped in front of Acestes. “Be patient, please. Let me talk to her. My daughter became fond of your uncle, and she still grieves.”

  “Patience may be considered a virtue, but it is not one I value.”

  Phaedra unclasped the necklace. “Here, this is yours.”

  “Keep it. I will never let the silly emotions of women keep me from what I want. You will be my wife, Phaedra. I expect you to attend the games. Wear the necklace then.”

  “She will,” said her father. “And will be honored to do so.”

  “At least one of you shows some sense.” Acestes’s tone was cold as he walked out of the garden. The golden embroidery edging his tunic shimmered as he departed.

  Her father eased down onto the bench. “That could have gone better.”

  “You should have warned me.”

  “I thought you would be pleased to accept him. You get to keep your house, your servants, and your money. Acestes is a handsome man. He is much younger than Marcus.”

  “He is my nephew.”

  “Phaedra, be reasonable. He is not your nephew. You did not watch him grow from babe to boy to man. He is not your kin. You need to marry someone again, and soon. The Senate needs proof that I have a million sesterces before the sessions begin next year. If I do not have it, then they will take my seat from me.”

  Phaedra closed her eyes against the sun and the sky and the reality
of her life. “I understand that it is my duty to remarry in order to see to your comforts, Father. But if I must remarry now, then at least let me pick one of the other men to whom you have spoken.”

  “No one else is interested, my dear. Four years without a child is a long time. They fear you are barren, or worse, frigid.”

  Phaedra bristled at the notion. “I am neither barren nor frigid. My husband had two wives before me, and none of them ever gave him a child. We cannot all be barren. Therefore, the problem lies with the common factor.”

  “People have forgotten the others and see you.”

  “What if I know of a man whom I want to marry?”

  “Can he afford to allow you to live in comfort?”

  At least her father had not asked the real question: Can he afford to pay for my Senate seat?

  “I have not met him, not yet. But if I do?”

  Her father laughed. “Marriage to Marcus turned you into quite the deal maker. It is to be expected, I suppose. He was a rare politician.”

  “You are changing the subject, Father. I need you to give your word.”

  “I promise to consider all suitors,” he said with a sigh.

  “Thank you.”

  Holding up his hand, her father said, “Do not thank me too much. Acestes is a powerful man, and someone I think neither of us wants to displease.”

  Phaedra sighed. “He plans to be consul one day, when he is old enough to take his family’s seat in the Senate. He will be powerful one day, Father. It is just not today.”

  “I know you care little for politics and power, my dear,” her father said. The fact that he spoke the words slowly, as if she could not understand these deep subjects, set her teeth on edge. “But Acestes was wealthy even before he inherited Marcus’s money. Acestes also has an army to ensure that his will is done, and a ruthlessness that shows how little he cares for those who get in his way. You would be wise to remember that.”

  “His army is in Germania,” said Phaedra, although as she spoke, she understood that mattered little. People would do what Acestes wanted because having an army gave him power, and having money brought him influence. Everyone would want to befriend Acestes. She tried another tactic. “You do not plan to keep your word, do you, Father?”

  He sat taller, his chest expanding with indignation. “I told the great general that you were allowed to choose your own husband. You yourself heard him say as much.”

  “That you did, Father. I am sorry,” she said, although she did not feel entirely in the wrong for her question.

  “We shall strike another bargain,” he said. “Acestes will be busy with these funeral games. They will not start for several days. You must find another husband before they end or be ready to accept Acestes’s proposal.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “I am. You have one week to find another suitable husband.”

  One week. It was all she had to change her fate.

  Chapter 21

  Valens

  Somewhere near the forum, bells rang out to mark the eleventh hour. After his meeting with the general, Valens had sat in this tablinum for over two hours, numb with shock, trying to comprehend all that had happened. At least Acestes had allowed Antonice to stay at home.

  Oh, what heartache his sister had caused. He wanted to throttle her, but Valens knew he would never raise a hand to Antonice. He could yell, however, and at the moment it seemed the best place to start.

  “Leto,” he called to the housekeeper. “Bring Antonice to me at once.”

  Leto returned a moment later. “Apologies, dominus. Your sister is still abed.”

  Anger flooded his veins. Valens stood so quickly that his chair toppled backward, clattering as it hit the floor. He kicked it and it skittered toward the wall. His shin throbbed where it had connected with the wood. The pain felt pure, real. The red rage that now consumed him was better than the numbness that had enveloped him during the morning.

  Valens did not stop to think on his actions or try to develop a stratagem for dealing with his sister. He stormed to her side of the house, upending tables and scattering urns and pitchers as he went.

  I am here. The debris spoke for him. I have been here. You cannot ignore the bits of pottery and shards of glass. You cannot ignore me.

  Without knocking, Valens pushed open his sister’s door. Curtains pulled against the daylight left the room in shadow. Even in the dimness he saw her. Antonice lay curled up with a blanket pulled to her chin and partly over her head. She looked so like a mouse in its hole that some of Valens’s fury slipped away—although not enough to blunt his temper.

  “What have you done?” He yanked the curtains opened and light filled the room.

  Antonice sat up. Dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, and her eyes opened wide. She looked much as she had as a young child. Valens nearly sobbed aloud despite his wrath.

  “What have you done? Tell me you did not know how Damian found the coin to pay for your jewels.”

  Antonice stared at her brother and said nothing. Yet the tears that slipped down her cheeks spoke volumes. She had known and, with that knowledge, had been complicit in the crime.

  He wanted to shake her. For her, he would be returning to prove himself in the one place he had sworn never to go again. He swung his arm across her cosmetics table, scattering perfumes and powders. The cloying scent of jasmine and a fine, shimmering dust hung in the air. With a force that rattled his very bones, Valens pushed out of the room and slammed her door.

  “She does not leave this villa,” he said to Leto. “Send the steward to hire guards. Do you understand?” He stormed from the house.

  Only as he wound his way down the crowded streets of the Aventine did Valens register his housekeeper’s silent response of tears and a nodding head.

  He had failed his sister. If Valens had been more attentive to Antonice’s activities when she was younger and their mother alive, this—this goat rope of a problem—might have been avoided. Even years ago, Valens had known he needed to do more, to be more. Instead he had done nothing beyond give them coin. His pace slowed as he entered the Capitoline Market. The temples to Hercules Victor and Portunus flanked a ludus. His ludus.

  As a child Valens had possessed the courage to enter these doors in order to save Antonice. Now he stood at the door to Paullus’s house and lifted his fist to knock, instead resting his knuckles on the wood without making a sound. Why? Did he so loathe the idea of killing, even if that death allowed his sister to live? Or was it that if he reentered the ludus, the Fates might cut the thread tethering him to the earth, and the only way he would leave again was by dying?

  Valens knocked. A slave opened the door. A guard stood nearby. “State your business,” the slave said.

  “I am here to see the lanista.”

  He did not wait to be invited in or be led through the atrium. Valens immediately walked past the stunned guard, knowing the way well enough. He found his former master sitting behind a desk with scrolls and tablets strewn about.

  Paullus looked very much as he always had. In the familiarity of the situation, some of the tension Valens felt left. Yet in its place came a worse thought. What if nothing has changed? What if I am still the same man, a bastard who cheated death and poverty by capitalizing on my willingness to kill?

  “Ah, my friend.” Paullus moved to the front of the desk and clapped Valens on the shoulder. “You should have told me you were coming. I would have been better prepared.”

  “I need a favor,” said Valens.

  Paullus gestured to a chair and Valens sat. “Anything you need is yours.”

  “I need the German to train me. I am going to return to the arena.”

  Paullus laughed. “For a moment I thought you serious. No, really, what do you need?”

  “I wish I were joking. Antonice has gotten herself into some trouble with the army. In order to have the charges dropped, I agreed to fight again.”

  “Tell me you jest.”


  Valens shook his head.

  “Did she do what she was accused of? You could hire a solicitor to argue her case. As a freeman you have that right, you know.”

  “She is in the wrong. I am certain of it,” said Valens.

  “How long do you have to train?”

  “The games take place in a few days. Over the course of five days, I have to fight three times to the death in order to set Antonice free.”

  “Three fights in one week? Impossible.” Paullus raked his hands through his hair, and white tufts stood on end. He looked Valens up and down, appraising him. “I fear for you, my friend. You have gotten so soft.”

  “Soft?” Valens flexed his arm muscles. “I am not soft.”

  “What have you done since leaving the ludus? Eat, sleep, enjoy your fame, spend some money, and bed a few women.”

  Valens shrugged. He had earned his easier life.

  “I know what you have not done,” said Paullus. “You have not trained.”

  “I tried running up and down the Aventine carrying a tree trunk, but the neighbors stared.”

  Paullus shook his head. “Always a smart comment with you.”

  Valens shrugged again.

  “I never fight a gladiator without training him for at least six months. Otherwise it is suicide.”

  “I trained for eight years,” said Valens. “I do not need six months for my skills to return.”

  “You need longer than you have. Besides, winning three fights in a series of games is impossible. Even if you fought to first blood, or if the winner was determined by referee, the task is too difficult. Is there no other way?”

  “I can think of nothing. My sister has been accused of thievery. She encouraged her favorite, an aristocrat named Damian, to steal. The boy’s father arranged for him to join the legion and serve in Germania to pay for his deed. I have no family connection, but I do have my reputation as a gladiator.”

  “So, it is the arena for you or death for her?”

  “At least I have a chance of surviving.”

  Paullus raked his hands through his hair again and sighed. “I love you like a son, Valens. That means I must love Antonice like a daughter. You became a gladiator to save her life. After cheating death for so long, are you willing to return with these impossible odds in order to save her once more?”