by T. L. Higley
It was then that they pushed against each other, each plate insisting on its own passage, the pressure building and building and building until finally—with a force to shake the nations—one plate would dive under the other. Rock liquefied, fissures widened, and a channel burrowed up, upward to the surface where it could find release.
She had found this release many times in ages past, and under the heavy vegetation, her slopes bore the scars of countless lava flows. But did the people who sheltered in her shadow, who farmed her fertile soil, did they remember her power?
No, they saw her as beneficent, always. As though she could not destroy if she so chose. As though she did not hold sway over their very lives.
Foolish. They had been foolish. And they would soon know their folly.
CHAPTER 15
When Ariella left the sand that afternoon, followed by the dwarf whose life she had nearly been required to take, her veins were on fire and her senses more acute than they had ever been.
She strode under the stone arch that led out of the arena, then down the vaulted corridor behind the seating to the holding room where ten other pairs of fighters waited for their turn at glory.
She couldn't help a raised fist when she entered the room. There were shouts of acclamation, if half-amused. The dwarf had gone elsewhere, to wherever they were kept.
Celadus slapped her back and knocked her off balance, then laughed. She laughed with him.
"Knew you could do it, boy. Never a doubt."
She chose not to argue, instead basking in the moment. She was invincible, unbeatable. The chants of the crowd rose again on the other side of the stone wall, recalling her own moments before them, all white and gold, gasping and cheering at each move she made, their thunderous applause when she had the dwarf on the ground.
Hours later, the glow had not worn off, and she joined her fellow gladiators in the dark courtyard as the lanista brought jugs of wine to be passed among them. They had lost only a few of their near-hundred men. It had been a good night. The purple wine slid down her throat cool, then hot, and no wine had ever tasted better.
There were more shouts, more laughter, and back-slapping from those who had not seen her in the holding room. Strange, to feel herself a favorite. She straightened and nodded, warmed from the commendation and from the wine. Spectators, ardent fans who lived for the games, milled through the training yard, wanting to get closer to their heroes. They were mostly women, and Ariella watched, fascinated, as they clustered around their favorites. Celadus, with his big smile and missing front teeth, seemed to draw the nurturing types, while Paris and his friend Floronius, haughty and proud, had the young ones fawning over them. Ariella drew some attention as well, but fled from the strangeness.
They fell onto their mats eventually, and most of the men snored within moments. Ariella propped her hands behind her head and stared at the roof of the cell, reliving the fight once again.
I can do this. She had seen that running away would be fruitless. But why could she not stay, train hard, and win real battles? Not battles against dwarves, but real matches with some of the men here. She could survive. She had seen that tonight. Especially if she could win the favor of the crowd.
I must make a name for myself. Something to make her known among the townspeople . . . An idea came to her, bringing a small smile in its irony.
Scorpion Fish. Venomous, hidden, and masters of disguise and deception, the bright fish could blend in with its surroundings, unnoticed by its prey. She had already worn the fish-crested helmet of a Murmillo.
Yes, it was perfect.
She fell asleep at last, confident in her plan.
The next day, it took only a small amount of persuasion to get the lanista to let her paint more signs for the next fights, ten days hence. She did have artistic ability, and her first advertisements had done their job well. But she did not expect the metal collar he locked around her neck before allowing her to leave.
"Not taking any chances," Drusus said.
She touched the bronze at her throat. There would be no escaping now, with the clear indications of her status bolted to her body. No matter. She had found another route to freedom.
Once out in the city, paint in hand, it was a simple matter to work her own publicity into the task.
See Paris, the favorite of Rome, together with Scorpion Fish, slayer of dwarves, and twenty other pairs of fighters . . .
Never mind that she hadn't killed the dwarf, which in truth she was very glad about. It was enough to identify her, and if she knew this town, they would seize on her nickname and make it an object of fascinated conversation.
She continued through the city, painting her placards outside bakeries and brothels, taverns and thermopolium, where hot foods waited in bowls set in the marble counters, for those who preferred not to cook their own.
When she returned to the barracks, the old slave, Jeremiah, met her in the training yard. "You have been given new quarters." He took her paint supplies and indicated that she should follow. "I am to take you."
Confused, she followed Jeremiah into the shaded portico that bordered the field, past the cells she had shared with the others. "Why?"
He did not answer until they had ducked under a doorway, into a small room with a mat, some rough bedding, and two pots. It smelled of urine and waste, but it was hers alone. "Perhaps Hashem has heard my prayers, to keep you safe from those who would harm you." He patted her back, a touch soft enough to comfort.
Ariella turned to study him, watched his faint smile and then the downcast eyes. How had he accomplished this? She surveyed the tiny chamber. To have her own cell, a private place to dress and bathe—the blessing of it brought tears. She swiped at them and patted Jeremiah's arm. "Thank you, Jeremiah."
He shook his head. "Thank Hashem, dear child. He is the giver of all good things."
She smiled sadly. Her childhood faith had long ago been trampled by Roman boots, replaced by nothing but cold anger. "You thank him for me, Jeremiah. He has not heard from me in many years."
Jeremiah came to touch her face, like a rabbi's blessing. "Do not let them conquer your spirit, child. The evil one toils to keep these people oppressed, obsessed with violence and lust. Do not let him pull you into the gutter."
In the morning, when she was able to prepare for the day alone, in her private cell, she nearly did give thanks to the Creator, so grateful was she for the respite.
But the break was short-lived, for she was expected on the training field by sun up. Remembering her renewed plan yesterday, she determined to train hard today, to better prepare for the next fighter she would face.
Today's partner, however, could not have been more daunting. When Drusus called out the pairs and she found herself faced with Paris, her heart pounded in a rhythm that matched the fighters who beat against the wooden palus.
She expected amusement, mockery, from Paris as he circled her and strapped leather around his hands, his perfect body gleaming with oil. Instead he appeared angry.
"What did I tell you about stealing my glory, runt?"
Ariella swallowed and readjusted the sword in her hand.
"Did you think I would not find out that you've been running around the city, painting your name next to mine?"
What a fool she was! He had warned her already that an attempt to draw attention to her status as the smallest fighter would not be welcomed. She licked her lips. "There is room on the walls of Pompeii for two fighters, Paris."
"Not when you are one of them." He slashed at her with his wooden sword, and she jumped back.
The fight was quick and dirty. Paris had her on the ground in seconds. Ariella sensed the other fighters break off their training to watch. Paris grabbed her by the leather vest and yanked her upward, off-balance and held upright only by his hand wrapped around her buckles.
Ariella's breath came quick. She took in with sharp clarity the tan leather of his own vest, the acrid smell of his body, the roughness of his hand
s.
He used the flat side of his sword to swat at the side of her head, as though she were an annoying insect.
Shouts erupted from the rest of the fighters, but Ariella could not tell if they encouraged Paris to free her or to beat her until she were dead. Another slap with his sword. Her face stung and her eyes watered. She tasted blood in her mouth. He jabbed his sword into her side. The wood was too dull to pierce skin, but would her ribs give way?
She fought to pull away and regain her footing. Fear coursed through her and made her desperate. She dropped her own sword and reached to claw at his eyes. Her fear merged into hatred and anger.
A shout from the side of the training yard turned Paris's attention away from her. She used the moment to break his hold and shuffle backward.
"Is this the kind of training I have instructed?" The lanista's eyes flashed as he stalked across the grass. He came up close to Paris, jutting a finger into the fighter's chest. "You have a chance to run your own school someday, Paris. But not if you let your emotions rule. Understand?"
Paris grunted and turned away.
Ariella leaned over, her hands on her knees, and tried to catch her breath.
Drusus flicked a hand at her. "Take a break, little boy."
She stumbled back to her private cell, and was unsurprised to find Jeremiah waiting for her. He probed her ribs with gentle fingers, but she winced with even the slight pressure. "No breaks." He took her face in his hands and turned her head left and right. "You will live. This time." His disapproval angered her.
He laid her down on her mat. "You are like a strong horse, but one with no leads. You run wild."
"And I will continue to do so!"
He shook his head in silence. She tried to soften her harsh words. "I must."
"You are a mighty warrior, Ari. Ah, what the Lord could do with that fighter's heart."
He left her then, left her to her thoughts which at once grew dark.
She had been a fool. It did not matter how hard she trained, how skilled she grew. She could never survive a match with a fighter like Paris. She was destined to always be a prelude to the real entertainment, always to fight dwarves and animals. Or else she would be pitted against real gladiators and she would lose. Would the crowd have mercy? Would the editores of the games let her live?
The dwarf had gained the crowd yesterday and saved his own life. Dwarves were a curiosity, and no one wished to see them dead. Were not women gladiators also a curiosity?
How long would it take for Scorpion Fish to make a name well-known amongst the townspeople? And when Scorpion Fish revealed that he was in fact a woman . . . . She smiled at the plan. Paris had said that he would win his freedom by earning the favor of the people. If a stupid beast like him could do it, then so could she.
A few more fights, a little more attention, and then she would be ready to amaze the town of Pompeii with something they had never seen.
A woman in the sand of the arena.
CHAPTER 16
Cato's declaration at the games, though made only to himself, still occupied his thoughts in the new day. He would bring Maius down.
Taurus would have him run for election as duovir against Maius, but running was only a fraction of the battle. It is winning that means something. And winning was far from guaranteed, with Maius owning most of the town's loyalty for one fraudulent reason or another.
And so he entered the Forum once more, to put a finger to the political winds and see if they might blow favorably in his direction.
His first stop was the Eumachia, where Emeritus, head of the Fuller's Guild, had dealt unspoken threats the other day. He would rather have avoided the beak-nosed man, but it would seem that strong support could come from this group, and it would be invaluable.
Emeritus was deep in conversation at the back of the building under the roofed colonnade when Cato entered, so he strolled through the working slaves, as though interested in their work. The chalk they used to whiten the togas given to them for washing smelled as foul as the urine, but some of the slaves hummed or sang while they worked, and seemed immune to the odor. He lifted the corner of a silk, half-submerged in a dye pot, then replaced it at the look of a slave who frowned at him like he was a meddling child.
Emeritus turned his dark eyes on Cato, arrested his conversation seemingly in midthought, and stared. Cato dipped his head, and Emeritus indicated that he should approach.
"I did not wish to interrupt—"
Emeritus brushed away his apology. "You are not interrupting. You are the very subject of our discourse."
Cato inclined his head. "I am sorry, then, that you do not have more interesting topics to discuss."
"On the contrary, your arrival makes the topic that much more interesting. You are reconsidering?"
Cato sniffed and looked out over the slaves in the courtyard once more. "I am asking questions, that is all."
Emeritus seemed to remember himself and introduced his associate. "Otho, another of the city's fullers."
The man was as young as Cato, and looked as though he had worked his way into the upper class from a poorer beginning. Cato bowed in acknowledgment. "And are the fullers united in their—dissatisfaction—with the current leadership?"
Otho snorted. "The man is a—"
Emeritus laid a hand on the younger man's arm. "Careful, Otho. We are, above all things, discreet." He turned back to Cato. "You can be assured that the Fuller's Guild would support a change." He leaned in close, confidentially. "Especially one that would place a man of integrity on the seat of duovir."
Cato pulled back and lifted an eyebrow. "And where would you find such a man?"
Emeritus smiled. "Your modesty becomes you, but is unnecessary. Rome is not so far away."
"Then you have heard of more than my integrity."
"We must not expect to always be successful in our attempts to quash corruption, Portius Cato. Failure is part of the battle. We are looking for a man who will fight. That is enough."
The commendation was like soothing oil on an old wound, and Cato bowed in appreciation. "I thank you for your wisdom. I shall inform you of my decision." He turned to leave, but Emeritus called him back.
"Do not tarry too long, Cato. Evil has a way of multiplying when left unchecked."
Cato returned to the Forum's main square, fortified that at least there was support from somewhere. But it would take more, much more, to make him believe he could be successful.
Were there others he could approach and try to read? The danger was in Maius's loyal supporters getting word back to him about Cato's inquiries. He mused over the possibilities of the fruitsellers, the goldsmiths, the carpenters. Each industry had its own guild, not so powerful as the Fullers, but still able to deliver votes in a block that would be important.
He decided to search out the jewelers, as Taurus, who had worked so hard to convince him to run, was part of that guild. He crossed the Forum's central pavement at a diagonal, to the opposite corner where the shops might yield the man.
Indeed, he had not even reached the other side when Taurus appeared, spotted him, and strode toward him, his face pinched. "What is this, Cato? Do you attempt to disqualify yourself before you have even begun?"
Cato held up his palms and grinned. "I did not think a visit to the jewelers would be such a black mark—"
"Cato, be serious for once. I am speaking of your sister! It is all over the city."
Cato waved away Taurus's concerns. "She has done nothing to welcome his advances—"
"His advances? It is everywhere that she is after Maius to give her the son that her husband cannot."
Cato's blood surged. "You cannot believe—"
"It matters not what I believe! Perception is everything, my boy, and right now your family is cast in a very ill light. Adultery by a woman of standing is nothing to be ignored."
"She has done nothing!"
Taurus shook his head and held up his hands. "Understand me, Cato. I do not care
if your sister is as pure as lamb's wool or as tainted as the foul sewage that runs the streets. I only care about your reputation, and how this situation makes you look."
"And I care more for my sister than your cursed election!"
Taurus opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again and snorted. When he spoke, it was quieter, the tone soothing. "Listen, Cato. You could do much good in this town, and that includes helping your sister, and your mother with her endeavors, and any other women you wish to help." His voice held amusement, but Cato's thoughts jumped to Ariella. He had already done a bit of good for her in the past day, but she was still in danger.
"You must be reasonable about your priorities," Taurus was saying. "First things first."
Cato looked off to the mountain, so solid. Unlike the wavering allegiances of a town that put its own needs above all else. "Do I have the support of the jewelers, or is it only you?"
A slow smile spread across Taurus's face, like a satisfied cat after a bowl of milk. "The jewelers are united behind me. You will be our man for duovir."
Cato nodded, pivoted, and left before he could say something about the man's "priorities" that would not be favorable.
Enough politicking for one day, however quiet it had been. He headed home, past the thermopolium where the smell of onions and garlic made his mouth water, and he stopped to purchase a bowl of meaty stew. He stood at the marble slab with others enjoying hot food from the sunken pots, and scooped the stew with two fingers, savoring the flavors and thinking over the two encounters and the rumors that were spreading about his sister. A beggar came to the counter, asking for food, and Cato started to chase him off, but the shop owner held out a bowl to the man with a few quiet words—"in the name of Jesus." A chill ran over him at the statement, the third time in as many days he had heard that name. They seemed to be everywhere, these mysterious followers.