Primus entered soon after.
“I have need to hear that all is well in my enterprises.”
The Greek, only a few years older than Maius, nodded once and then sat cross-legged on the floor of the atrium, near the couch where Maius still reclined. “Then I shall tell you all is well.”
“The wine business, specifically?”
Primus shrugged. “What do you have to fear, in any of your undertakings?”
Indeed. “And there have been no rumblings from the people? Talk of another candidate, that sort of thing?”
Primus shook his head.
But the slave was too pensive for Maius’s liking. “What is it?”
“There is only some business with the brothels.” He shrugged. “Nothing serious.”
Most of the town’s many brothels were occupied by slave women owned by Maius, and the profits funneled back to him on a regular basis, thanks to the insatiable lust that enslaved the idle and rich Pompeiians.
Maius jutted his chin toward Primus. “Speak.”
“There is a noblewoman who is purported to move among the women, urging them to find a different life.”
“How would they do such a thing?”
Primus shrugged. “Save their money. Purchase their freedom, perhaps. I do not know.”
Maius waved a hand at the absurdity. Primus was right, it was nothing to be concerned about. “Who is this generous noblewoman?”
“Her name is Octavia. Of the Catonii.”
Maius felt his lips part. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, striking Primus. The Greek skittered backward.
“Cato again!” The cursed boy was everywhere he turned. He rounded on Primus. “Get out.”
The slave only stared.
“Get out!”
Primus obeyed, but Maius was not content to remain where he was, even alone. He paced the garden, then strode from it and took to his veranda that overlooked the city.
Torches still burned across Pompeii, mirroring the starry night. Maius gripped the curved stone wall and stared across the city, as though his vision could travel down street and alley, through the doorway of the house of Portius Cato, and straight into the man’s heart like a knife.
Cato was a danger. He could see that now. For all Maius’s posturing, he would admit, to himself alone, a latent fear that the ex-politician from Rome could damage him. More than damage. If Maius lost his position as duovir, he could be prosecuted for any charges that the ordo chose to bring against him. Most of which involved execution if he were found guilty. And he was not so naïve to think that once out of office, he would have enough friends to keep him safe. He slapped his hands against the stone wall and pushed away to pace the veranda.
No, he must move against Cato, and he must do it strongly, show him who controlled this city and its resources. It was not about wine anymore.
What would it take to frighten the young man back to Rome? Clearly, the burning of his vines had not intimidated him. But he must have a weakness. He conjured up Cato’s image in his mind, held it there like a magician with a spell, seeing Cato’s fiery indignation at the plight of his sister.
Yes . . . his sister. There was weakness there. Like his mother, apparently, Cato suffered from a disadvantage ill suited to political life—compassion. And that weakness could be exploited. Maius’s heart quickened with a beat of anticipation.
If nothing else, Maius was an expert in finding ways to bend others to his will, and the plan came easily now that he had seen Cato’s frailty. It would have to be about the sister. How easy it would be to spread rumors that Portia was being unfaithful to her husband. Poor woman, desperate to bear a child and convinced her barrenness was the fault of her girlish husband, she had turned to a man whose very essence was virility. Flattered by her attention and never one to turn away an admirer, Maius had succumbed to her charms.
Maius stroked his full lips. Yes. It was good.
Maius could have the city council press for Portia’s divorce. Her husband had the right to divorce her for infertility already. Adultery would be another strike against her, and Maius could wield the mighty weapon of influence. She would be disgraced, stripped of her property, and unable to remarry. It was the perfect threat to use against Cato. And perhaps also against Portia. Who knew what she would be willing to do to avoid such charges?
His belly was full of the night’s sumptuous food, but tonight he also gorged on revenge.
There came a mighty shift, deep within the earth beneath Vesuvius.
The massive, broken plates of continents that rubbed shoulders snagged and tried to break loose. They floated on a fiery sea of melted rock, carrying oceans and continents, ever so slowly. Sometimes these plates merely passed each other without incident. Sometimes they drifted apart. But at other times—at other times they were not so tame.
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.
The mountain had found this release many times in ages past, and under the heavy vegetation, its slopes bore the scars of countless lava flows. But did the people who sheltered in its shadow, who farmed its fertile soil—did they remember its power?
No, they saw it as beneficent, always. As though it could not destroy, as though it did not hold sway over their very lives.
Foolish. They had been foolish. And they would soon know their folly.
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.
She could 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 tonig
ht. Especially if she could win the favor of the crowd.
She must create a nickname for herself. 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 indication 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 thermopolia, 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 sunup. 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 hands.
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 was 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 always to 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.
16
Cato’s declaration at the games, t
hough 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, since the other duovir, Balbus, would not face an election for a while, but running was only a fraction of the battle. It was winning that meant 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 Fullers’ 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 mid-thought, 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.”
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