by T. L. Higley
Behind him, her voice grew wary. "How did you know that I was given a private cell?"
He shrugged. "I thought it would be best—"
But she pushed past him. "I do not need your help—"
He pulled her to face him before she disappeared under the stone arch. "I watched you fight."
Her expression was still haughty, but after a moment she exhaled and grinned. "Not bad?"'
He laughed. "I was sick the entire time."
Her smile faded, replaced by a vulnerability he had not seen before. He longed to touch her, to feel that fascinating hair, to see if her lips were as soft as they appeared. His mouth went dry with the thought, and his heart thudded against his chest.
You are such a fool, Quintus Portius Cato.
Ariella was not a woman he could ever marry, clearly. And without doubt she would never consent to be his mistress, even if he asked.
What then was left for them? Only a gentle squeeze of her fingers and a quick farewell. "Be safe, Ari the fighter." His words were a whisper in the darkness.
She said nothing, only watched him as he backed away.
When he finally turned toward home, it seemed to him that she watched him still, warming his back with her dark eyes.
CHAPTER 21
Ariella watched Cato walk toward the street, away from her. What could she say to bring him back? Nothing, silly girl. The night had been fearful, then baffling, then as near to wonderful as she had come in many years.
Before he reached the street, before he could look back and find her watching, she slipped under the stone arch into the barracks, then stepped aside and leaned back against the wall. She was not ready to trade the beauty of the night for her ugly cell.
Moonlight played over the dark green grass and striped the portico around the field with bands of white and black. She could smell the damp grass, and it recalled to her mind the way that Cato smelled, of grapes and fertile soil. Her shoulders dropped and she leaned her head against the stone. The night was hushed, with no sound but the trill of unfamiliar night birds, wrapping her in their sleepy song and loosening the tightness she strove to retain around her heart.
When Cato had first appeared in the doorway of Europa's triclinium, Ariella's heart had leaped with the ridiculous thought that he had come for her. After that initial foolishness, she had struggled to find sense in the coincidence. But when Cato called her name, and Jeremiah realized who stood in the door, the old man squeezed her hand until she looked into his pained eyes.
"This meeting is of Hashem." His smile competed with her scowl. "He watches over you, dear girl, and He has something for you in this man. I know not what. But you must be ready."
She had listened to the words spoken in Hebrew, words for her, Jeremiah had said. She had felt the hand of the Creator on her, as she had not felt in many years, since she had turned her back on Him and His holy city, and fled from both.
And now, alone in the grassy training field, Ariella still had only questions.
That Cato had some interest in her was clear. He had paid Drusus for her private cell! She had thought it was Jeremiah who had somehow arranged the luxury, but saw now that only money crossing his palm would have induced Drusus to agree.
Her breath shallowed as she thought of Cato beside her on the cushions, his skin brushing against her own. Of his eyes on her in the street only moments ago. He was a man with the beauty and money to have any woman he wanted. What was she to make of a Roman nobleman who looked at her thus?
True, in Jerusalem she was not a slave. But that was many years ago, and she had fallen a great distance. Cato was as sophisticated and smooth as the fine wine he smelled of, and though it flowed over her, warming her, he could want nothing honorable. She should not be surprised. From the moment they had first spoken she had seen that he wore the role of jester, of the carefree rich who sought only to amuse themselves. She was the latest amusing thing to capture his interest, a woman disguised as a man pretending to be a fighter. An oddity, nothing more.
She pulled away from the wall. Jeremiah's injuries would be cared for, and she must forget the rest of the night's events. Forget the Romans who quoted from the Torah and spoke of her God as though He was their own and showed her love despite her status. Forget the single fascinating Roman who drew her to himself like no one ever had.
She must train, and train well. Only ten days until the next fight, and she had much to prove.
And so she returned to the field, returned to her leather and sweat, to her wooden rudis and the palus and to sparring with men twice her size and of even greater strength. She laced up her heart even as she wrapped the leather around her hands, and swore that she would think of nothing but the arena.
And for several days, she found success. She fought with the fierceness of a trapped and hunted animal. The taunts grew fainter, and the occasional word of praise from Drusus reached her ears and strengthened her arm. She could achieve her goal of making a name for herself in the arena, then reveal her gender to win the crowd's acclaim.
Perhaps it was the lull of temporary success, perhaps it was only fatigue, that lowered her defenses and made her foolish. She had always taken great care to dress and bathe in the dark hours of the late night and early morning, when a stray glance into her cell would reveal little to the passerby. But one evening while the light still found its way between columns and stone and gate, she stripped the sweaty armor from her body and sought relief from a rag dipped in a bucketful of cool water.
A scrape of sandal on stone was followed by a sharp intake of breath. Ariella snatched up her tunic and covered herself, then lifted her eyes to the bars.
Celadus stood before her, the whites of his eyes impossibly large. He reached out to grip the bar, as if to steady himself, and his voice was a harsh whisper. "How could I have not seen it?"
Ariella's stomach heaved. "Celadus—"
He shook his head, held up a palm, and strode away, back to the quadriporticus.
Cursing her stupidity, Ariella dressed quickly, with shaky hands, then hurried out. He stood across the field with three or four others, and Ariella slowed her frantic rush and bit her lip. Was he revealing her secret already? Dare she approach?
But though the fighters laughed over some shared humor, they did not look at her any differently when she neared.
"Celadus." She kept her voice low. "I must speak with you."
He did not look at her. "Not now. Ari." He spat her distorted name as though it were distasteful.
She pinched his elbow. "Please, Celadus."
But he yanked away, and brought the laughter of the group.
"It seems it is more than the women who are your fans, eh, Celadus?" Floronius punched his arm and winked. "Even the girlish boys have their eye on you."
Celadus's face flushed, but he would not look at Ariella.
"Ari!"
Her name was shouted from across the field, and she jumped, her nerves tight.
Drusus crossed the grass. He carried her painting supplies. "Need more signs. For the next fight." He reached the men and pushed the paints and brushes into her hands. "Something that will make people stop and read, understand?"
Ariella glanced at Celadus, but his back had turned. "I understand." She backed away from the men, hoping Celadus would at least give her a look of compassion, of continued friendship. Of forgiveness. But it was as if she did not exist.
She moved into the city on wooden legs, unsure of whether her ruse had finally had come to an end, or if Celadus would keep her secret.
The evening sun had dipped behind many of the walls in the tight streets she crossed, but the crowds had not diminished. Delivery carts rattled over the rutty stone streets, their drivers shouting at animals and people alike. The offending horses and donkeys snorted and clicked an uneven rhythm across the cobbled stones and the people responded with matching shouts and rude gestures. Ariella bumped along, a piece of wood caught in the human tide, toward the Forum. The city p
assed in a blur of tans and reds and oranges, until she reached the white stone of the Forum, lit like gold by the setting sun.
She found a space of wall without any notices painted on it, outside the Eumachia, and began to paint. The outline of the arena took shape under her brush, and it would capture attention.
Inside the arena she painted the first words that came to her: Celadus the Thracian makes all the girls swoon.
She smiled. He would like that. But would she get the chance to tell him?
All too soon the twilight fell, and she made her way back to the barracks. The lanista met her inside the entrance, his face grim. Her stomach dropped.
"Need to speak to you, boy."
She breathed. There was the boy at least. "You will like the signs." Her voice sounded feeble. Girlish.
"I hope you painted something about yourself." He turned and crossed the grass and she followed.
"Myself?" In truth, she had. Still clutching at her hopes to win her freedom, she had not passed up the opportunity to promote Scorpion Fish on the city walls.
His voice barely reached over his shoulder to her. "I've been watching you. I think you're ready for more."
Ariella's hands tightened around her brushes and paint. Yes.
"I'm putting you against Floronius." He turned at last in the shadow of a carved column. "You will be third." She must have betrayed her excitement, because he chuckled.
"Yes, Ari. A real fight for Scorpion Fish."
She flushed, then nodded. Drusus disappeared into his own chambers, leaving Ariella in the courtyard to contemplate the rise and fall of her fortune.
Could Jeremiah be right? Was she indeed watched over by the God of her fathers?
CHAPTER 22
Cato shoved aside all thoughts of gladiators, and focused on his own fight for the position of duovir. There was much to be done, beginning with taking the temperature of the city's rich and powerful. As there was no better place for such a thing than the baths, Cato headed there early one morning. He carried his small pot-bellied jug of oils in his palm, but his mind was occupied with neither luxury nor cleanliness. His campaign did not have much time, and it might be the same for his sister.
While there were a number of baths located throughout the city, drawing their patrons from the surrounding neighborhoods, Cato chose the Forum Baths for the patronage of those with whom he needed most to mingle. The lavish bath complex had been generously supplied by Emperor Augustus some time ago, and the dedicatory inscription chiseled into the marble lintel above the door proclaimed that the baths had been furnished ex pequnia publica, without the public's money.
Cato passed under the doorway and into the outer room, which was already warmer than the morning air. The effect of luxury was immediate, with soft music strummed somewhere within, the sound of running water, and the scent of perfumed oils. Ordinarily, Cato would have succumbed to relaxation, to joining others in this cult of luxury, this worship of the body. Today his muscles remained knotted. He had work to accomplish.
He crossed the mosaic floor and entered the apodyterium, the changing room for the men. The room was a celebration of the male physique, surrounded on three sides by sculptured pillars of impossibly-muscled men with their arms raised above their heads, holding up the wall above them that curved upward into a domed roof. Even the fantastical frescoes painted on every wall and across the dome chronicled the male gods of old in their feats of glory. The pillars, half flush with the wall, left cubicles between for personal belongings, and Cato stripped off his toga and tunic and placed them in one of the empty niches, then sat on a bench to remove his sandals and scan the room for any whose conversation he might seek. There was no one.
Perhaps the tepidarium would yield better results. He crossed into the warm room, with its blazing brazier and benches around the perimeter, and found several of the city's prominent men already lounging. A few heads turned his way, and nods signified his welcome.
In the days since deciding he would run for duovir, Cato had mapped out his main obstacles. The city was owned by Maius, and this would cause many to remain loyal despite the man's character and his crimes. Cato would need to inspire them with a fresh hope for something different, for change they had not yet seen. And for this he would need money, something lacking since his flight from Rome and purchase of Saturninus's vineyard, home, and wine shop.
He slid to a bench beside Oceanus, another native of the mother city who had retreated to Pompeii on a holiday and stayed ten years. The older man's graying head leaned against the warmed wall, and he opened only one eye to Cato, then closed it again.
"Good morning, Oceanus."
The man grunted.
In the corner near a brazier's heat, a seated lute player piped a slow tune and two naked women danced seductively. Cato watched for a moment, then dropped his gaze, fighting the usual battle, and failing, as usual. He searched for an opening to the conversation he must have with Oceanus. "I can see why you chose to stay here in Pompeii all these years. The luxury rivals even Rome, and the weather is perfection."
Oceanus nodded, eyes still closed. "Yes, this town gets into your blood, I'm afraid. For all its grandness of size and architecture, Rome begins to lose its luster from this distance."
"It's only a pity that all this beauty is not reflected in its leadership." It was a bold statement, but necessary.
Oceanus lifted his head now, glanced around the tepidarium, and looked sideways at Cato. "Ready for the calidarium?"
It was an invitation for more dialogue. Cato nodded and followed Oceanus into another elaborate room, the hottest of the complex, where the hot plunge pool at the end of the room already held several men seated within a cloud of steam.
The calidarium showcased the finest in Roman engineering, with water that started its journey through the massive aqueduct that fed the city from the port of Misenum, to the huge tank at Pompeii's highest gate, to one of over a dozen secondary tanks situated throughout the city, then through piping into the baths. The floor of the entire complex was built of thick stone over a shallow chamber of brick columns. A furnace outside the baths was fueled faithfully, pushing super-heated air into the sub-floor chamber, heating the brick columns that supported the floor, and in turn heating the room above. Other channels pushed hot air beneath the pool, keeping the water heated enough that Cato was forced to step in slowly, letting the water scald him by degrees.
But the heat seemed to loosen tongues as well as muscles, and before many minutes Oceanus had resumed their conversation, including the others in the bath. "Our newest citizen, Portius Cato, seems dissatisfied with the city's current leadership."
Curious eyes shifted toward him, then away, ever casual. Silence followed, so still that Cato could hear the condensation on the vaulted ceiling run down its ribbed channels into the narrow gutter at the floor. He tried to relax in the steamy heat, but his nerves were strung taut.
"Perhaps a change is called for." This from a man unknown to Cato.
With that, the conversation opened, and serious talk of the election began. Cato found himself the center of their attention, and used the opportunity to expound on his developing ideas for the city, for the changes he would enact, for the fresh breeze of integrity that needed to blow through the corrupt streets.
"You will need something big to announce your candidacy." Oceanus wiped condensation from his brow. "Something that will show people who you really are."
Cato gripped the side of the pool where they sat. "I have a plan."
Sometime later, after they had been oiled and scraped by slaves and had moved to the frigidarium for the cold plunge, Cato dried off and dressed, anxious to get to his next destination, where he would begin to put the plan into action that his new friends in the baths had endorsed.
Stepping from the bath complex into the mucky street was like a descent from the heavens into the unclean world of mortals, but Cato took little notice. He strode through the street that ran parallel to the F
orum, not wanting to be waylaid by anyone, and reached the theater and the barracks behind it in a few minutes. So occupied was he with his plan that he didn't slow as he entered the training field, and found himself in the center of a dozen men pitched in mock battles.
"Whoa!" One of the men held up a hand and the others lowered theirs to let him pass. He glanced at each, but Ariella was not among them. This close, they were huge, most of them. How did Ariella even train against them? He turned to watch them, his eyes following every memorized move, his mind naming each tactic as it was executed. But he had other business.
There, at the end of the field, training alone against the wooden post. She looked so small down there, so isolated.
He tracked through the green grass to reach her. If she saw him, she gave no indication until he was upon her. Her dark hair was growing out a bit since the first time he'd seen her here. If it were up to him, she would not need to chop it again.
"Ari." He said it quietly, but still she jumped and twirled, her wooden sword at the ready.
He grinned and held up a palm. "Friend, not foe."
She jabbed her sword into the grass. "What do you want?"
He exhaled. "I—I have an idea. I need your help."
"How could I possibly help you?"
"I am going to run for duovir."
She shrugged and lifted her sword as if to go on practicing. "Some kind of city official, right?"
Cato bit the inside of his cheek. She was not Roman, nor Pompeiian. Why should she care about the city's governing bodies? He needed to reframe his proposal. "I have a way to help you, that will also coincide with the announcement of my candidacy."
She narrowed her dark eyes, and her lips tightened with suspicion. "Help me?"
"The upcoming games. I know that they are scheduled to be small, more of an exhibition, since no one has yet offered to sponsor something larger. But I am going to sponsor a grand display, and the centerpiece of it will be to show the people something they have never seen."