Mark of the Gladiator

by Heidi Belleau

  “I try to live day-to-day, Domina. If you do not attempt to sew anything lasting, the lack pains less.”

  “Your metaphor is confused, but I appreciate your effort to speak within my feminine domain. I’ll speak soldier-plain in return. Perhaps I could have a message conveyed for you. A message of simple regard and concern to one you hold dear.”

  Fortune, you are merciful. An uncomplicated kindness was truly all she offered. And he knew just the way to avail himself of that kindness.

  “There is one, Domina. His name is Gaius. He belongs, as I still do, to the lanista Iunius.” Gaius, whom he hadn’t dared to linger on in his thoughts because it was too heartbreaking, just as it was too heartbreaking to think of his other gladiator brothers he’d lost, or his friends, or his wife, or the child he’d never had the chance to give her.

  There just wasn’t room for sentimentality in a slave’s life, but now, thanks to Aelia’s generosity, he was able to indulge in it. Just this once. His heart swelled with a bittersweet sadness that wiped away everything else. Please be alive.

  “Very well. I will send a house slave and ensure confidential delivery to this Gaius. Along with a few denarii of peculium.”

  “Thank you, Domina.”

  “As for this one—” Aelia gestured behind her with the tip of the skein “—she should have come forward earlier with her suspicions. The decision has been made to leave her discipline in your hands. If she’s lashed, though, give her no more than five strokes. All these women are valuable to our house.”

  The thought of whipping one of the women, even one as untrustworthy as Amanikhabale, turned Anazâr’s stomach. He could have Quintus do it, or one of the other women . . . no, that would be even worse. If the order came down, he’d harden himself to the task.

  But not today. Not while there was any choice.

  Amanikhabale spoke. “I regret my error, Domina, gladly receive correction, and thank the gods that the house of Marianus remains unscathed.”

  “Study your swordwork, Aethiopian, and win a higher place in our esteem. Cyrenaicus, you may go now.”

  Alexandros beckoned.

  As they passed through the atrium on the way to the vestibule, they skirted a milling group of clients. Here to complete their morning ritual of deference and financial sustenance, no doubt. Waiting for Marianus to appear before them, as stately and resplendent as the sun.

  Anazâr caught a glimpse of toga fold, and flinched.

  When the red doors closed behind him, he felt as if some titan’s fist, some brutal ethereal force squeezing his ribcage, loosened its grip, and he could breathe once again.

  Returning to the warehouse and their daily practice brought him further relief, and Anazâr could tell the gladiatrices felt so, too. Well, maybe for them it had more to do with being unchained and allowed into the sunlight than about the rigors of the exercise or the renewal of purpose, but Anazâr enjoyed their apparent enthusiasm regardless.

  But it wasn’t just relief. Something had changed in the way they looked at him. The habitual shadows of distrust that came upon them—only rarely, of late, but still enough to be of notice—had apparently vanished the moment he’d walked in to unshackle them, Amanikhabale unharmed at his side.

  None of them could stand to look at the Sarmatian. Torn between gratitude and fear, perhaps. He kept her aside from the others, away from the sparring.

  “You’re to be rewarded,” he told her later, after the exercises had ended. Rufus and an older slave woman were dragging in the heavy clay vessels filled with mashed beans and barley, their usual dinner staple. “In my old ludus, that would mean provision of wine and a woman for a night. In your case, well . . .”

  “What, I can’t have a woman?” Rhakshna smiled at him, baring teeth, and Anazâr couldn’t tell for the life of him whether she meant it. “That fucking Aethiopian has one, why can’t I?”

  It seemed a casual insult, at first, or maybe a strange diversion tactic, as patently false and absurd as pointing to the sky and shouting, “Look, there’s Jupiter!” But then, when he thought about it, he did recall Cassia, freshly unshackled, immediately moving to clasp Amanikhabale on the arm, like long-parted sisters. Well, maybe not sisters. And Amanikhabale, that day after the baths, circuitously asking about taking a wife. Not sisters at all. He wondered if he and Gaius had ever played roles in a similar revelation.

  He shrugged. “I’ll have a woman hired. From outside. You can’t expect the women you fight with to serve your desire at command.”

  “Ha! You and your incomprehensible morals. I was jesting anyway. I don’t want a whore. I don’t even want wine. That’s how I was captured, you know. I was piss-drunk at an ambushed wedding party. Too drunk to get on my fucking horse.” She curled her bruised mouth into an expression of naked self-disgust. “I haven’t let a drop touch my lips since then. For reward, just bring me meat carved off something with four legs.” She stabbed a finger at the clay vessels. “I’m sick to death of that fodder.”

  A fair request. He sympathized. It would not be difficult to arrange, either. He beckoned Rufus over.

  Their communal meal proved a somber affair. If the Gaul women mourned Enyo, they did so very quietly.

  Later, alone in his quarters, watching the shadows draw closer to the window, winning their battle with the fading sunlight, he finally let himself think of Felix.

  Marianus, Aelia, Alexandros. No one in the domus had even mentioned Felix’s name. Where had he gone? Had he reached his destination safely? Anazâr felt compelled to check behind the bolts of cloth, as if he could discover Felix hidden there, a crooked smile drawn across his face.

  Gods, that smile. The absence of it left a hole in the world.

  There was still some light. He sat up on his pallet and turned to a less pensive pursuit: the tracing of letters on a wax tablet. He would improve his rude hand.

  He remained hunched over his tablet, working single-mindedly until darkness fell and he was forced to set the tablet aside. A few faint stars shone in the window’s black rectangle.

  And then a rock soared through it.

  He jumped to his feet, heart pounding. Dropped back down to his knees, fumbled for the tinderbox, struck a spark and managed, after a time spent softly cursing, to coax a flame and transfer it to a candle.

  He scanned the floor with the meager light until he found the rock—tied, of course, to a folded scrap of papyrus. Letters only, letters tiny as ants, and he had no hope of understanding them unaided.

  Did Felix wait outside, cloaked in the deep darkness? Anazâr went to the window and held up his candle, once, twice, three times. Perhaps this would be the last time they would . . . well, if not talk, at least acknowledge each other’s presence.

  If Felix couldn’t reconcile with his brother, there were other cities where a quick-witted man could make a good living. He imagined Felix in Alexandria, strolling along the marble colonnades of the Greek Quarter while arguing some obscure poetic convention with a handsome man or a pretty, disreputable lady. He could be happy, if only he would just leave.

  And he would leave. Of course he would.

  Anazâr pinched out the candle flame and joined Felix in darkness, wherever he was, wherever he was going.

  In the morning, he summoned Amanikhabale. No choice, really. He’d thought maybe if he looked at the letter by light of day . . . but no, it was as indecipherable as before. He just had to hope Felix had the sense to realize a translator would be necessary and thus not write anything incriminating.

  “Another lesson?” she asked as they walked into his quarters.

  “No. This. And I’ll trust you to decipher it truly. After what happened yesterday, our fates are closely tied.”

  “So true.” She took the scrap, unrolled it, and peered at the little crawling lines. “I suppose I should thank you for not whipping me, as well. That would have put me off my dinner, and it’s difficult enough to choke down as it is. I wouldn’t mind some meat either.”


  “The additives are for strong bones; gladiators get used to the taste. The message, now.” Looking down at her hands, he noticed, not for the first time, that several of her fingernails were misshapen, discolored, ridged where they should be smooth. Given that their fates were—as he’d remarked—so entangled, perhaps he should finally ask why. “What happened to your fingers?”

  “Torture. Following a setback in Nicaea, I ended up slave to a slippery Bithynian. He wasn’t a bad master, but he was outrageously dishonest, and made a fantastic living out of it. Our household moved to Rome, where I once lived in a domus much like that of Marianus. Then my master was accused of forgery. All his slaves were tortured for evidence, according to Roman law. Most of us left behind a few fingernails and teeth, but lived through it.”

  She’d rather talk of anything but the message. Even torture. “You’ve read it already.”

  “Yes. It’s just . . .” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “The first part is a reply to Cassia. The family wouldn’t let Felix see her daughter. They said they’ve told her Cassia is dead. That it’s more merciful that way. I did not expect to be charged with telling . . . with carrying . . .”

  “Tell her. Honesty leaves a cleaner wound. I’ll let you be the one, since you and she . . .”

  Amanikhabale narrowed her eyes. “Since we what.”

  Surely she didn’t think their relationship a secret? He shrugged. “I was led to believe you were intimate. Well, whether or not you are doesn’t matter to me. As long as it doesn’t affect your training, you can do as you please. I was much the same, before.”

  “Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t. But I’d prefer if you didn’t mention it again. To anyone.” She gave a huffy sigh and combed her fingers through her braids, deep in thought a moment before her expression relaxed into its usual polite opacity. “There’s a note here for you, as well. From the master’s brother. It begins, ‘To my big man.’” A grin, showing teeth.

  “Me? I’m only middling size, for a gladiator.” Half a joke, and he soon had half a smile on his lips, too. Of course she knew Anazâr was the target.

  “To my . . . middling-size-for-a-gladiator man. I have not been able to get you or your huge—” Now she snorted into her hand, gripping the letter so tightly it crumpled in her fingers.

  So Felix had realized Anazâr would need someone to read for him, except the knowledge had done the exact opposite of what Anazâr had hoped: instead of encouraging him to use discretion, it had spurred him into his usual sadistic compulsion toward scandal. But then, perhaps a bawdy letter would at least keep the true depth of their feelings for one another—all the tenderness they’d shared—a secret.

  Which didn’t stop him from being embarrassed, of course, but he didn’t let it show. “It’s his way. Continue.”

  “—sword,” she finished, “by which I mean cock, out of my fevered imagination. Meet me at the Archius insula by the Tiber at the edge of Tanner’s Row, second floor, eastern room, in the first watch of the night. Have the Aethiopian, who’s no doubt reading this to you, write you a master’s pass. Aside: I know a rich poet who’s looking to buy a scribe, and I’ve already put in a word for her. Let the dice be cast, and eat this dangerous message, perhaps with some fish sauce. No, burn it. Vale, my Hephaistion!”

  Anazâr looked away, toward the window where dust motes danced in the clarified morning sunlight. He could let down a rope ladder, he supposed. “You know the danger. If I’m caught, lashing will be the least of it.”

  She sighed. “I’ll write the note. I’ve no choice but to play this game, even though the masters have weighted the dice. Including your Felix. Your Alexander. Don’t lose your head with him. Not the big one, at least.”

  I trust him more than—

  No. He would hear Felix out and discover anything that would provide advantage. Quiet, subtle advantage. Neither loyalty nor love would save Anazâr, not standing where he was under the specter of the cross.

  You should have left.

  The day that followed was their rest day, and their bath day, but the escorts never came. Instead, the gladiatrices made do with buckets of sun-warmed water, squatting and glowering as they splashed their filth-striped skin. Anazâr could see the fragile remains of their morale withering in the sun right before his eyes, and there hadn’t been much left of it after Enyo’s death. At least there was more than a month until the games, because if they fought tomorrow, they’d be slaughtered.

  However, if their spirits remained this low, a month to prepare wouldn’t be enough. A hundred years wouldn’t be enough.

  So he drew on the floor again—not letters this time but lines for a game of tables—gathered wood chips for counters, and ordered them to play. At least they could practice their Latin this way, and pass the time with less danger of falling into fearful imaginings.

  Cassia shivered and wept every once in a while, letting her long dark hair fall over her cheeks to hide the tears. Amanikhabale brought her water and stayed silent.

  Their grim tournament lasted until nightfall.

  Quintus accompanied the delivery of their usual dinner. “And next week?” asked Anazâr.

  “I don’t have the slightest idea. I just lock up, guard the door, and do as I’m told. Ask Marianus tomorrow about the bath trips.” Quintus had a curt manner about him tonight—not hostile, no, but any prior amiability had entirely vanished. Distancing himself from potential trouble, Anazâr had to assume.

  When true night fell, Anazâr unshackled Amanikhabale. The women sleeping next to her awoke, stared, and closed their eyes again, pretending not to see. He took her hand and guided her up the ramp to his quarters, wondering what story to tell them all the next day.

  He recalled his earlier platitude about the value of honesty with some ruefulness as he set to work on the rope ladder and a disguise. Amanikhabale lit a few more candles and began her own work.

  A gibbous moon shone over Rome’s dark streets. He’d weave his way down to the Tiber by its light.

  “It’s not a good disguise,” said Amanikhabale, adjusting the drape of the hood that hung low and shadowed over the incriminating half of Anazâr’s brow. “I can’t promise that you won’t be stopped, or that no one will recognize you.” Or that the forged letter will prove convincing, or that either of us will survive this. “But maybe . . .” She waved a hand through the air in a vaguely circular motion.

  “Maybe you’ll change your sword for a quill, and I’ll fly back to Libya on a winged stallion.”

  She anchored the end of the rope to a sturdy post. “Association with Felix brings out an odd sense of humor in you, I believe.”

  “It certainly brings out something absurd in me. Let’s hope Fortune will be amused, and spare us.”

  A whisper of a farewell followed after him as he climbed out of the window and down. Down into the black chasm of the unlit streets that stretched out before him as bewilderingly complex and dangerous as the Minotaur’s labyrinth.

  The main streets flickered with the irregular light of lamps, which were tied to the carts prohibited from the city during the day. They rolled on their delivery rounds, wheels creaking and bullocks lowing, guarded by watchful men with clubs and whips.

  Anazâr kept to darker, smaller, parallel streets, straining his vision for any clue to the shape of the world, trailing his hand along walls when the lack of lines grew too dizzying.

  The street leveled. He continued until the sound of rushing and a noisome stench indicated he’d neared the bank of the Tiber.

  Two cloaked men drifted toward him from an alley mouth, one bearing a lamp on a staff. Thieves, by their ragged tunics. Anazâr looked directly into the black oval pools of their hooded faces, and bared his teeth.

  “Closer,” he said to them. “Closer, please.” He reached, quite conspicuously, into his own tunic. Nothing belted there but a practice sword, but it was likely all he’d need for men such as these.

  Just the threat of retaliation was enough. They drew back. He
walked on.

  He wondered if the people he passed by could sense he was a slave, the same way he’d sensed the cloaked men were thieves. Even with the tattoo covered, did he hold himself a certain way? Walk too quickly? Seem too determined to hide his face from passersby?

  The signs on the walls begged light to read, which he couldn’t do anyway. He stopped by a group of carters unloading amphorae and asked directions to the Archius insula while keeping his voice casual, his posture guarded yet unaggressive.

  “Down that way. Tavern with a red awning, Tiber-side.” The man barely glanced at him.

  Down a few building lengths, the sound of music—drum and ill-played flute—drew him toward the tavern and its awning, stained and bruise-purple in the gloom. He wondered if the fabric had come from a Marianus warehouse. From a bolt much like the one where he and Felix had— No. He needed his wits about him. With the patrons of the tavern, who could still report him, but with Felix, too. This suspicion, this paranoia, this uncertainty . . . it all had to end. He had to decide his loyalty tonight.

  A man leaned against the wall to the left of the tavern. Anazâr knew Felix at once by his eyes, even in the guttering torchlight. He’d foregone his striped toga for one that didn’t mark his class. They were both, in their way, in disguise.

  “Felix.” Just that. He had no idea what else to say. Felix was the one with all the words.

  “Anazâr.” He flinched. Hearing it aloud still felt strange and strangely threatening, even though the circumstances of their meeting actually made the Roman name more dangerous to speak aloud. “I’m glad you’re here. Come with me, inside. There’s someone . . .”

  Felix drew closer, placed his hand around Anazâr’s wrist, pulled lightly. Anazâr remained statue-still, muscles locked into place. “You involved me. And others, as well.” I want to go with you. What I truly need is another matter. “In your stupid family quarrel. A woman is dead. The Aethiopian and I risk our lives even now.”