She went to bed in her old chamber and lay down, staring at nothing.
Terenita entered and stood quietly at the foot of the bed. “Is there anything I can bring to you, Lady Phaedra? Something to eat, perhaps?”
Shaking her head, she patted a space beside her on the bed. “Will you sit with me?”
Terenita hesitated. “I could, I suppose, if it is something you would permit.” She lowered onto the mattress, her back straight and rigid.
“It is an odd relationship we have, is it not?” asked Phaedra. “In the eyes of the law, you are but a possession, much as I was for my father.” Emotions, grief and anger, filled Phaedra, and she sobbed again.
Terenita placed a soft hand on her shoulder. “Cry as much as you need, my lady. It will do you good.”
Phaedra wiped her eyes with the corner of her bedcover. “Another favor—call me Phaedra, only Phaedra. Not my lady, nor Lady Phaedra. For this night I would lose titles.”
“If you wish.” Terenita paused. “Phaedra.”
Phaedra clasped the other woman’s hands with her own. “No matter what happens to me, I will do all that I can to keep you with me. Without you, Terenita, I would be alone.”
“I know,” said Terenita. “I know you are loyal and good-hearted.”
“Even when I am naive,” said Phaedra.
“Even then,” said Terenita, giving Phaedra’s hands a squeeze. “And also when you are stubborn.”
Phaedra smiled. “I am my father’s daughter, am I not?”
“You are the best of him, and through you, your actions, and your memories, he will live on,” she said.
“That thought brings me much comfort,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Try to rest, Phaedra,” said Terenita. “It will help you face tomorrow with more strength.”
Phaedra closed her eyes but did not sleep. She saw only her father. Without him, what would become of her? True, she had been disgusted by his spending. But even at her most exasperated, she loved him.
Who would be her guardian now? As a lone woman in Rome, she had no legal rights. Most likely she would be sent to live with her closest male relative, whoever that might be. What might they do with her? The answer, simple enough, came immediately. It would be another marriage for her. It was with that bleak thought that a black and bottomless sleep claimed her.
Chapter 41
Phaedra
As soon as Phaedra awakened in the morning, the sharp pain of grief sliced through her yet again, laying her soul open. She muffled a sob with a musty pillow. Before her eyes opened, as tears coursed down her cheeks, someone touched her foot. It had to be Terenita, hoping to rouse Phaedra by playing with her toes. It might have worked if she was five annums and her father had not died the night before.
“I am not hungry,” said Phaedra, her head still buried in the pillow. “But do fetch me water.”
Terenita touched her foot again, this time a little more insistently.
“For the love of all the gods, I just need a glass of water.” Phaedra sat up and opened her eyes to look upon a world where her father no longer lived.
Terenita was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the old peacock stood at the foot of her bed, his beady eyes trained on Phaedra’s foot. What tasty morsels did he imagine her toes to be? The obvious joy she read in his stare seemed a crime when she felt such unending sadness. Loss. Loneliness. Grief. These would be Phaedra’s constant companions, now and always.
“I suppose I need to find water myself,” she said to the peacock.
He pecked at her toes again.
She stood up in a whirl of covers and feathers. “You find your own breakfast.”
Phaedra slipped on yesterday’s dress and ran a brush through her hair. She had no appetite for food. But her throat hurt from crying. Phaedra wandered toward the dining room, and the peacock followed. Its dull and tattered tail trailed behind him like the flag of a defeated army.
She stopped to stroke the short, silky feathers on the top of his head. Did he miss Marcus, or had he even noticed that there was a new master? The peacock and Phaedra were linked, both at someone else’s mercy, beholden to them for every kindness and comfort.
She heard male voices coming from the dining room. Her hidden vantage point in the corridor allowed her to see the perfectly dressed Acestes entertaining her father’s cousin, a man she had not seen in years. She stopped and listened to their conversation.
“Then there is the debt owed to me by the late senator,” Acestes said.
“You must know that I do not have that kind of coin,” her father’s cousin replied. As her closest living male relative, he was now Phaedra’s guardian, inheritor of all that belonged to her father, both good and bad. She moved closer to the dining room, hoping that by staying in the shadows she would be close enough to hear what they were saying while remaining unseen. The peacock had other ideas, however. He strutted into the room, letting out his warbling call.
Acestes turned to the peacock and saw Phaedra as well. “I did not know you were there. How fare you this morning?”
As she stepped into the room, she said, “Not well. Of course I am saddened by the death of my father.” She said nothing of the heartbreak over losing her chance at a life with Valens and her worry for his health. “I am also very troubled to know that my father’s debt will be passed on to his cousin.”
“I have no coin,” said her cousin. Sweat dotted his upper lip. “I live on a farm outside of the city. I do not want the Didius family Senate seat. I cannot afford it.”
“You have an obligation,” said Acestes, “to your dead cousin and his living daughter. If you do not accept responsibility for the family and for Phaedra, who will? Am I to throw her out into the street?”
“She is the widow of your uncle. I say that she and her father’s debt are your responsibility.”
Acestes opened and closed his mouth, as if he had planned to say one thing and then decided to say another. He appeared to weigh his options and to think through every eventuality. “I suppose I could become Phaedra’s guardian. We had spoken of marriage on more than one occasion.”
It galled her that her father’s death was playing perfectly into Acestes’s plan to marry her. “I will leave you both to work out the arrangements,” she said. “Good day to you, Cousin. Acestes, might you have someone bring water with lemon to my room?”
“I will send some food as well,” he said.
“Grief steals my appetite. I think today I shall just rest.”
“You will eat and bathe and be ready for the games in an hour.”
“I am in mourning and not going to attend the games today. You cannot ask me to be seen in public.”
“I can ask you. If you refuse, then my request will become an order.”
“I see,” she said. She did see, in so many ways. She was no longer the daughter of an influential senator. She had no personal wealth or family connections. Stripped of her titles, she was no one.
Acestes said, “Do not say, ‘I see,’ as if I am a monster.”
Alone. Vulnerable. Beholden. Phaedra lowered her eyes, taking the stance of the weak and humbled. “As you wish,” she said.
Acestes walked to Phaedra. He placed his hand on her shoulder. His touch, both warm and soft, turned her stomach. “I need the people of Rome to see you with me today. You understand?”
“I do not,” she said, “but I will do as you ask.”
He kissed her on the lips. It took all of her energy to keep from shivering. Phaedra had wanted her first husband, Marcus, to have passion for her, and she had felt keenly disappointed when he had not. With Acestes, lust radiated off him like the heat rising from a noonday street, and his desperate desire left her frightened.
She walked away as soon as the kiss ended, not bothering to say good-bye to her father’s cousin. She kept her pace slow and steady in the dining room. Once she was out of sight, she raced through the rest of the villa, never bothering to turn around. She slamme
d her chamber door and slid to the floor. From the corridor came a light knocking. She wiped her eyes and moved away so it might be opened.
“Enter.”
No slave came in with a tray of food. She heard the knocking again.
Each movement pained her. Slowly, she stood and opened the heavy door. From the corridor, the peacock regarded her with his shiny black eyes and strutted into the room. Closing the door, she slid once again to the floor. The peacock pranced upon her lap, turning twice, and sat down. Resting his head upon her leg, they regarded one another. In his look she read the undeniable truth: We lovely captives must remain together.
Chapter 42
Phaedra
Phaedra and Acestes arrived at the forum during the middle of the first match of the morning. The noise and the heat and the dust provided scant distraction from her grief. Without her father, the box seats felt empty and too silent. The other guests kept their voices low and made few comments out of deference to his passing.
How ludicrous to attend games the day after her father died. The urge to slap Acestes, to beat upon his chest and demand that he return her to her home, came upon her with such a force that she had to clench her fists to control herself.
Two large gladiators struck at each other with swords. The clanging of steel on steel reverberated in her chest, changing the rhythm of her heart. Phaedra swallowed a hard lump of grief, and tears clouded her vision. The ashes she had used to darken her lashes melted and stung her eyes. She motioned Terenita to her side. “I need a cloth with water.”
“Yes, my lady. Anything else?”
Phaedra hesitated. Even with all the sadness it would bring, she needed to know about Valens like she needed the air she breathed. She had been reckless with her behavior before, and now had to be careful lest she lose Acestes’s favor. “Find out about my friend,” she said in a whisper.
“Your friend?” asked Acestes from the other side of the box. “What friend?”
For the love of the gods, that man missed nothing.
“It is not a friend, precisely,” she said. “During these games Valens Secundus has become a favorite of mine. He looked ill yesterday—I wonder if he is able to fight today.”
“Ah, yes, you have developed a soft spot for the handsome gladiator, have you not?”
“I never follow the games,” she said. “But having a gladiator to cheer for makes them more enjoyable, or at least less difficult to watch.”
“He did look horrible,” said the former consul, Fimbria. “Shame if old Scaeva and his new equestrian died one day apart.”
Phaedra gasped, unable to hold her tears any longer. They spilled over her cheeks.
“I would thank you to hold your tongue,” said Acestes. “Can you not see how upsetting you are to Scaeva’s daughter?”
“Apologies,” the man said.
Phaedra bit her bottom lip and nodded in his direction. She could not bear to look him, or anyone else, in the eye.
“I can provide you with some happier news,” said Acestes to the Phaedra. He opened his arms and addressed everyone in the private seats. “I heard that Valens, though ill yesterday, recovered enough and will fight again today. Perhaps he can fulfill his contract and save his sister, after all.”
Phaedra wiped her eyes with a wet cloth that Terenita handed to her. The lack of cosmetics left her with nothing to hide behind. Still, she said, “That is happy news.”
Acestes stood beside Phaedra and gripped her palm in his own. Hand to hand, they looked like silver and gold. His skin, burnished from the outdoors, and hers, pale from ever avoiding the sun. “You do look drawn,” he said. “You may return to the villa to rest and then return for the primus. I would hate for you to miss a chance to see your favorite fight.”
It was not a request or suggestion. She had been dismissed and told when to return. A thousand possible responses came to mind, yet there was but one thing for her to say. “Of course.”
Guards escorted Phaedra from the arena. She stood next to the litter and looked across the forum. The roofline of the ludus drew her eye, and his name came with an unbidden breath. Valens. At least he had recovered. While she feared he would never forgive her for marrying Acestes, perhaps he, of all people, would understand that she no longer had the freedom of choice.
Terenita touched Phaedra’s arm. “The litter is over here.”
Phaedra paused. If she could just see Valens once more and explain, then maybe he would not hate her. And maybe then she could forgive herself for surrendering to the inevitability of a marriage to Acestes.
“Take me to the villa,” she said, regretting her words the moment she uttered them. To her surprise, she found that all of her belongings, which had been at her father’s villa the day before, were now waiting in her chamber at Acestes’s. So this is how it is, she thought. The cage is filled with beautiful things, and then the door snaps shut.
Chapter 43
Valens
Valens stood in the damp coolness of the inner maze of the bowels of the Forum Boarium more than a little surprised that he stood at all. After having slept away the morning and most of the afternoon, he was roused by a slave two hours before the fight. His body still ached and his head buzzed. Before Valens was fitted into his kit, the ludus physician had given him syrup made from poppy seeds. Black and thick, it had filled him with sunshine. Grateful to be free of pain, he had found the strength to leave the ludus and come to fight.
In truth, he would have found his strength without the syrup of poppy. He would not have given up, even if the stakes were not as high. He tried to picture his opponent and visualize a win. Yet in his mind he saw nothing save a field of golden wheat. Elysium. Was this his end? At least he had saved his sister. Antonice was well away from Rome by now—perhaps she and Leto had already left Capernaum and at this moment made their way to Padua. Phaedra had sworn to protect his sister and keep Acestes from carrying out the execution. So if Valens died today, then he would die well.
“It is time,” said Paullus.
Valens nodded and followed him to the door that led to the arena.
“I am proud to call you my son,” said Paullus.
“A man could have no better father.”
Paullus smiled broadly and clapped him on his wounded shoulder.
Valens winced at the pain and then set it aside.
“Apologies,” said Paullus. “I forgot which arm ails you.”
“Nothing ails me, not now, not ever. I am Valens Secundus, Equestrian, the Trainer of Champions, Son of Paullus Secundus, and a Titan made flesh.”
“A titan made flesh? That is a bit much, even for you.” Paullus’s eyes twinkled.
Valens ignored him. For his mind had already taken him to the middle of the arena, where the editor held his arm high and proclaimed him victor. And yet he knew that he was not in top form. The illness was still with him. Sloppy and weak, he might not win. He fixed his thoughts on Phaedra—her smile, her spirit, her kisses. Yes, for Phaedra and their love and the life they would live together, he would win.
The heavy wooden door opened and light spilled across the dirt floor. Valens stepped through and raised his arms as the crowd cheered. The editor, a tiny man with a shiny, bald pate, stood in the middle of the sands, baton in hand. The other gladiator, an African almost a head taller than Valens, came out of the other door. Two thick leather straps crossed his chest, and one arm was covered from finger to shoulder in a leather manica. In his other arm he held an oval shield. He wore boots that came to his knees, and a buff-colored skirt of lion skin. An open-faced helmet with a crimson horsehair plume completed his kit. The crowd cheered this man as well.
The applause stunned Valens. He knew nothing of the man he faced—his strengths, his weaknesses, even his name. It had been narrow sighted on his part not to learn anything of his opponent.
The gladiators stood on either side of the editor and waited for him to review the rules, lift his baton, and begin the contest. Before the ed
itor had even finished, the other gladiator struck Valens on the helmet with the flat of his sword. The blow was not meant to harm, but to unhinge. It worked. The second blow came in as quickly and unexpectedly as the first. The tip of the other gladiator’s sword connected with Valens’s calf.
Valens ignored the pain and the blood, but the momentary inability to move his leg sharpened his attention. The crowd stood and screamed. He heard them despite the throbbing in his head and the clang that reverberated in his ears. The two gladiators circled one another.
Thrust, thrust, block, slice.
Thrust, block, block, thrust.
Valens’s sword connected with the other man’s arm. He nicked an artery and blood pumped out like a tiny fountain. The gladiator’s shield sagged. Valens rushed in, aiming for the soft spot where shoulder and neck became one. For a split second he imagined Phaedra in his arms as he tasted her in the same place he now aimed.
His sword connected, but the tip did not punch through flesh and sinew and bone. Rather it glanced off a leather strap and leaped upward, making a shallow slice on the African’s cheek, just missing the eye. He would never get a chance at that eye again.
Focus.
No worries.
No thoughts.
Only actions.
His opponent came at Valens from the left. Wait, wait. Shift right. Turn. Valens stabbed the other man in the side as they passed each other. The movement of the fight became natural, fluid, like a long-practiced dance. They locked swords, each pushing against the other until sweat streamed down their faces and the veins under the skin bulged and pulsed.
The crowd booed their inaction, and the editor separated Valens from his opponent with a swipe of his baton.
They backed away from each other, panting. Valens’s leg had gone numb. His arm bled from a wound he did not recall getting. His shoulder throbbed. He had always known he would die in the arena.
He looked to the covered seats, those reserved for Acestes and the rest of the lazy patricians. He wanted to scream and spit and flay them all alive.
The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) Page 25