Mark of the Gladiator

by Heidi Belleau

  “Come lie with me,” he invited softly. “My pallet isn’t comfortable, but it’s better than the floor of your brother’s house, and this time I’ll keep you warm.”

  “I’d like that.”

  The sound of Felix’s voice pleased Anazâr immoderately. It was a musical voice, a skilled voice, a voice that contained a multitude of intonations, most of them deep and rolling rich.

  As they eased onto the pallet, everything he’d studied of Felix, every detail of body language, assumed new meaning, new grace. The way Felix traced Anazâr’s collarbone with the edge of his hand spoke of confidence in expressing affection. There was honesty in the wideness of his eyes, lazy happiness in the angle of his hips. Anazâr couldn’t stop taking it all in, reading Felix, even though a part of his mind held back and warned your judgment is not to be relied upon in this of all moments.

  He was beautiful. Handsome. All the names, all the appellations, all the words in all the tongues.

  But he is not your master. The only thing that made this allowable under Roman custom was the interplay between power and duty. And since both were so confounding as concerned Felix, Anazâr had every reason not to let this happen again.

  He tried to recover his senses. “Where will you go tonight, if the house of Marianus is no longer safe for you?”

  The dazed satiety vanished from Felix’s features. “I can’t stay here? No, of course I can’t. You’re right.” He shook his head, sitting up abruptly. “I have a friend, well, an acquaintance really. He drunkenly promised me use of his—well, I don’t think he really promised it, not genuinely, but if I show up, he won’t turn me away. And my brother doesn’t know him. They never met, not even that time at the temple, the day the hailstones fell.” The words kept tumbling and tumbling, all fragmented and insect-like flittings to and fro that spoke of overwhelming anxiety.

  Anazâr couldn’t align Felix’s rambling paranoia with the man he called master. “How can you be sure? For brother to kill brother . . .”

  “Don’t you know how this city was founded?” Felix darted to where the white folds of his toga lay pooled across the floor. As he hauled it over his shoulders, it let out angry rustling noises like a living thing. “Romulus and Remus, brothers by birth and wolf-fostered, fell into a squabble over survey lines. Since we live in Rome, not Reme, you can guess which one ended up dead.”

  Felix twisted, ducked, and threw a fold in the air. Anazâr had always supposed a toga could only be donned with the aid of a very skilled slave, but Felix was doing the best he could, cursing as his furious jerking motions only entangled him more. Anazâr rose, overcome with the urge to help, even if it all seemed incomprehensible.

  “No,” said Felix, nearly in tears. “I— Just help me tie a rope somewhere, all right, and I’ll lower myself out the window. I won’t come again. I won’t. Wait, I can’t climb down a wall in a fucking toga, what was I thinking?” He twisted again and loosened a fold.

  Anazâr grasped Felix by his shoulders and held him still with the lightest of touches. Felix froze, swaying neither away nor toward him. “You’re not thinking at all. You’ve even forgotten your under-tunic. Wait. We’ll make a plan. We’ll talk.”

  “I’m a danger to—”

  “Lie with me, just for a while, and we’ll talk. Please.”

  Felix’s twitching face stilled, but didn’t calm. “I’m a fool. A fool and an ass. You risk your life for me and I can’t even give you . . .” He sighed, spreading his hands.

  Anazâr pulled him closer, using so little force against Felix’s shoulders that the motion was more like a guidance, a teaching. “Come then, fool,” he murmured.

  Felix, shuffling, followed him back to the pallet.

  The window’s beam of sunlight had long gone, leaving them lying in deep shadow. Anazâr nestled down face to face with Felix and stroked his brow with the back of his hand until the deep creases there smoothed away. Felix settled a fold of the toga over both their legs, and Anazâr quietly marveled at his turn of fate to be wearing, in some fashion, such a noble thing.

  Talk, Anazâr reminded himself.

  “I believe you,” said Anazâr. “Someone is trying to kill you. But why would it be your brother? What does he have to gain? He could cast you out if he wanted, couldn’t he?”

  “Perhaps it’s over Aelia. No—” Felix shook his head, forestalling the question on Anazâr’s lips “—it’s nothing like that. Well, it was, I suppose, but it was never about love. She’d been married to him for three years with no issue. She came to me.”

  Anazâr felt as if the stone surface beneath the pallet had turned as treacherous and dizzying as the ocean, rocking him to and fro. He quelled the ridiculous urge to steady himself with an anchor, somehow. These are complicated people indeed.

  “She’s not barren. She had a son with her first husband, after all. But that one fell from favor with Augustus. Her father decreed a divorce, and her ex-husband kept the son, as usual. So she needed another. A child of my seed . . . well, everyone remarks on the brotherly resemblance. I was a safe choice.”

  “Did you do it out of regard for the family?”

  “Gods, no. My hatred for Lucius is pure, refined, unambiguous. But I have no quarrel with Aelia. Fulfilling her request was quite pleasant, in fact. She has breasts like—well, pick a fruit, any fruit. Except for grapes and cherries, of course. Those are too small.”

  “Your language is improper, to say the least, but I’ve grown to expect that.” Anazâr could barely see Felix’s face in the darkness, but white teeth flashed, the signal of an impish grin.

  “I’m awful. I know. But I’ve kept it a secret, I swear, until this very moment. And I can’t fathom why Aelia wouldn’t keep her peace also.”

  “Would he have to kill you all, if he knew?”

  “It’s complicated nowadays. The paterfamilias can’t go about killing family members willy-nilly. At best, he’d be tied up in lawsuits for the rest of his cursed life. Perhaps she told him. Perhaps he found out through some other means, and she’s unaware. I don’t know. But I’ll tell you what I do know. I’m sure he means me dead.”

  “I can— I’m not sure what I can do. Keep my eyes and ears open. Your brother . . . well, I suppose I’m practically furniture, now.”

  “Furniture, and a hole for him to—”

  Anazâr cut him off, refusing to explain himself, explain the complicated bonds that tied him to Felix’s brother. “Where does your hate come from? You’ve never said.”

  “I don’t want your help, Anazâr. I don’t want you in danger. I don’t want you as anything except a lover.”

  How could he press matters after such an admission? He could barely comprehend such a thing. Thank you, he wanted to say. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Joy seized the words before his tongue could speak them. Joy even more fervent than he’d felt when Marianus had dangled a morsel of freedom in front of him.

  And then the fear hit like a whiplash. Could he really trust that Felix’s words were true? And even if they were, what power did those words have in the real world, on the streets of Rome, beyond this tenuous sanctuary where they embraced in shadow?

  He stared through the darkness to see his fear mirrored in Felix’s eyes, and awe there, too, because the fear was not sufficient to drive away the hope, and Felix understood. What this meant. What was between them.

  Felix could see him as both slave and man, and with that sight, finally free him. Maybe not in the eyes of Roman law, but what did the law matter, really, compared to everything else that made him a slave?

  The next morning, Anazâr was escorted through the city under the light guard of Quintus and the cousins whom Anazâr hadn’t seen since the baths. A quiet indignity, quickly overshadowed by the fact that when they arrived at the domus, Quintus had him shackled, offering no explanation or apology. The weighted metal of the cuffs dragged on his wrists, heavier than their size would suggest. It pulled the rigidness out of his shoulders and neck and left him sl
umped and hunched like a beaten animal.

  The night before seemed a distant dream, though one he was desperate to recall in every detail, haunted as he was by the fragile image of Felix’s last strange, tentative smile as he slipped out the window on his makeshift rope.

  Anazâr followed Quintus through the silent, strangely empty house, back to the garden where Marianus sat half-dressed on a stool at the head of a dainty man-made pond, attended by a young male body slave who massaged glistening oil into his chest and shoulders. Despite the tranquil setting and the slave’s ministrations, he didn’t look remotely relaxed.

  And he didn’t even deign to look up when Quintus cleared his throat to announce their arrival. Just said, “Have him kneel.”

  Quintus’s foot jabbed at the back of Anazâr’s knee, but Anazâr knelt of his own accord before he could be knocked into position. He lowered his head, awaiting his master’s judgment.

  “Leave us.”

  The moments it took the footsteps to recede stretched like whole days, but finally they were alone. Anazâr still didn’t look up.

  He knows. He knows about Amanikhabale’s lies. About Aelia’s infidelity. He knows about Felix. About our—

  “My brother-in-law thinks I should have you all killed. Sent to the cross before anyone else in your pit of snakes can be convinced to rise against me.” Marianus sighed. “But I’m too damn softhearted and I . . . I’m fond of you, Cyrenaicus. Against my better judgment, it seems. And no matter how often my advisors tell me I should just have you killed, I can’t shake the feeling that sparing your life and trusting your loyalty will increase both our fortunes in the long run. That we rise or fall together, and as a freedman, you will honor me with the kind of loyalty a slave can never offer. But I need you to get to the bottom of this and prove yourself worthy of the gifts I so desperately want to give you. Do you understand?”

  Cold fear settled into hot shame. How could he ever think this generous, overtaxed man a murderer? “Yes, Dominus,” Anazâr murmured.

  “Now is the time to prove it, then. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

  Anazâr’s heart pounded, pulse throbbing in his forehead. That morning, before Quintus had come to collect him, he’d spoken with Amanikhabale. She’d given up on the “talking in her sleep” story for what she promised was the truth but was likely just a more convincing lie.

  The truth—he was kneeling alone in the vastness of the desert, taunted by mirages. Would he really become complicit in her deception? Betray his master that way? No choice. If her lies came to light, he would say he’d relayed the information in good faith. Lie again. Lies, lies, lies. Marianus didn’t deserve it, Anazâr knew he didn’t, and yet he didn’t see a way out. Or at least not one that didn’t endanger Amanikhabale without just cause.

  “The Aethiopian saw a man stumble into Enyo on her daily escorted walk. They didn’t speak, but their collision seemed . . . rehearsed. She pressed Enyo later, received evasions, and relayed her suspicions to the Sarmatian. That could have been when the knife was passed to Enyo.”

  Marianus’s voice revealed nothing when he spoke. “Is that so?”

  “I believe she tells the truth, although I am not an expert in such matters.” I am not a torturer. “But her actions aren’t those of a liar.”

  “Maybe not.” Marianus sat back, rolling his head on his neck, eyes closed. “Did you learn why the woman would make an attempt on my life, knowing hers would be forfeit?”

  “She had a very young daughter sold to Ostia, surely into a whorehouse. Someone must have promised her daughter’s freedom. Or perhaps threatened her life. To investigate if her owner was involved, you could buy the girl through an intermediary, make her part of your household.” He remembered himself. “I beg forgiveness, Dominus, if my advice is—”

  “No. I hear you. Perhaps I’ll follow that course.”

  Anazâr fervently hoped so. At least Enyo’s daughter’s fortune would be aided that way, even as hope for his own diminished. “I’ll offer more advice, then. The Sarmatian—she proved her loyalty, and she’s feared. If you set her as your bodyguard, it would give your enemy pause. And of course, I stand ready to fight in your defense, down to the last breath.”

  Marianus’s gaze darkened, those luminous silver irises half-shaded by his eyelids. Finally, some expression—a glimpse of an inner garden behind high, austere walls—and what Anazâr saw there was lust. He found himself unable to hold his master’s stare. He ducked his head. “Come here,” said Marianus.

  Anazâr . . . didn’t want to.

  “Yes, Dominus.”

  He rose to his feet, even that motion hunched and shameful. Maybe it was an effect of the shackles, which Quintus had not removed.

  You lie to yourself. You know the true reason.

  Felix.

  “Cyrenaicus, I would hope that you need no reminding about how it looks to me, on this of all days, to see you hesitate in carrying out an order.” Still sitting on that stool like a king or an emperor, but now Marianus stroked an imposing erection, shiny with oil, the motion erratic. Impatient. Annoyed.

  Anazâr forced himself to step forward, and then lurched, unsure of what Marianus was asking of him, specifically. Should he return to his knees again? He half lowered himself, but froze when Marianus shook his head.

  “Give me your back,” he directed, twirling a finger in illustration. “I’ll have you sit on it this time.”

  Anazâr swallowed hard, but turned, praying his actions appeared quick and eager and obedient to Marianus, even though they were anything but. No preparation this time. No touching or promises or cooling ointment. Just Marianus’s firm hand on Anazâr’s hip, guiding him down. Marianus’s cock, slick with the oil but burning, piercing and splitting his body.

  The position was an unexpected mercy: all Marianus’s scrutiny focused on the complacency of Anazâr’s well-trained gladiator’s body, the body with which he was forced to kill and die and starve and suffer and scrape. But none on his face, where he could escape behind his closed eyes.

  And find refuge in the tiny, flickering memory of Felix’s sex-pained smile.

  A long stretch of solitude passed after Marianus’s departure. Anazâr remained kneeling, trying to clear his mind.

  A yellow-throated lark dipped down from the sky and rested on the empty stool, cocked its head, sang four brilliant notes, then hopped away into a corner of the garden obscured by flowering reeds. Heralded by the bird’s passage, strange, unwelcome thoughts began to enter Anazâr’s mind. He shook his head.

  Footsteps approached.

  “Hold out your hands,” Alexandros said. Was that pity in the weathered old man’s eyes? Anazâr realized he was shaking slightly as he raised his arms. It was the weight of the metal around his wrists, he told himself, and he hoped Alexandros assumed the same.

  No clue as to whether he did, though. Alexandros remained as inscrutable as ever as he crouched in front of Anazâr and produced a key from the folds of his cloak.

  “Is everything as it was?” asked Anazâr, and sighed when the key turned in its lock.

  “More or less. Reward the Sarmatian according to your discretion, and inform her that a sum of a hundred denarii has been advanced toward her peculium.”

  Anazâr thought to ask for his own. But no, he should have discovered the plot much earlier. Marianus was fair. “What’s her value?”

  “Very high. Higher than mine, perhaps.”

  “Do you see the day when you’ll reach your own value?” He wasn’t sure why he dared to ask Alexandros such an intimate question, but something in the moment seemed to call for it. The tension of waiting for the bird to tire of the garden and rise back into the sky, perhaps.

  Alexandros took the empty shackles and stood in stoic pose, unoffended. “I’ve paid for the freedom of my son. I had a daughter, now gone to the afterlife, and I would have paid for her as well. But as for myself? Freedom is wasted on the old. I’d rather die sleeping on fine linens than starving in
the street.”

  “Understandable.” Anazâr rubbed his wrists. The pressure marks were fading already.

  “Come with me.”

  Alexandros led him not to the vestibule but to the women’s craft room Anazâr and Felix had once spent the night in, when Felix had so strangely slept by the threshold. It was occupied now by Aelia, sitting by the spinning wheel, toying with a skein of crimson yarn.

  The Aethiopian stood against the wall, faded into the mural as successfully as a born house slave.

  “Cyrenaicus,” Aelia greeted, smiling serenely at him. Two symmetric curls framed her heart-shaped face; otherwise, her hair was gathered and pinned into artful seafoam curves. As always, the perfect picture of a Roman wife, calm and collected in the face of chaos.

  “Domina.”

  “You saved my husband’s life,” she said. “You and your Sarmatian. I would thank you.”

  Two voices spoke in his mind at once. She is generous but there is only one thing a slave wants, only one thing and oh my desire I will die before I ever reach my freedom but she is generous, she is a noble lady and she is generous.

  “I’m honored, Domina. But no thanks are necessary. I merely fulfilled my duty. I would lay down my life for your husband.”

  “I wanted him to advance your peculium as well, you know. That won’t happen. But I wonder if perhaps there are ways to reward you that are available to me as a wife.”

  She fucked Felix. And now she wants the same from me, oh gods.

  He didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.

  She continued. “The life of a slave . . . it’s an impermanent, lonely thing, is it not?”

  Aelia blazed brightly in the center of his field of vision. Too brightly. Still, he managed to notice that over Aelia’s shoulder, Amanikhabale’s left eyelid twitched. He would have given anything to read her mind in that instant, to draw her counsel.