Blood of a Gladiator

by Ashley Gardner

  “You should let him go, Leonidas.” Cassia’s clear but quiet voice cut to me through the buzz in my head.

  Passers-by had halted, and Paulinus and his customers crowded the doorway of his shop. The street filled, and it was only a matter of time before a cohort or concerned citizen tried to drag us off to a magistrate.

  I gave the man a final shake and flung him at the wall across the road. He crashed into it, pushed himself up, and ran. Most in the crowd laughed, men waving fists in appreciation.

  Cassia struggled to pick up her packages. I gathered them for her and guided her with a firm hand into Paulinus’s shop. He and his customers scuttled back as I sat her on a spare stool.

  “This is Cassia,” I told them. “She will wait for me.”

  Paulinus shrugged, waving me back to the chair so he could continue with my half-shaved face. The men watched in puzzlement then slowly returned to the bench, the excitement over.

  When Paulinus finished, Cassia calmly asked him the price of the shave, as though she hadn’t been accosted by a brute on the street only a short while before. She made a note of Paulinus’s answer and serenely told him he’d be paid at the Nones of the coming month.

  I followed her out, and we walked along toward the Quirinal.

  “Were you hurt?” I asked.

  “No.” Cassia sent me a quick glance. “Thank you.”

  “You belong to me.” I had to cough—Paulinus’s shaves always scraped part of the skin away, leaving me with a rough throat. “That means I take care of you now.”

  I’d never had a slave of my own, and I wasn’t certain how things worked. But Aemil had seen to my needs in all my years of slavery, and I assumed this was the way of it.

  Cassia glanced at me with an unreadable expression then put her head down, stepping gingerly from stone to stone. I would have to teach her how to walk on Roman streets.

  Cassia had purchased me several tunics, which weren’t much different from tunics I’d worn as a gladiator, but were of better cloth and a tad longer. Freedmen were prohibited the toga, so I wouldn’t have to bother with that, which suited me. Cassia had, however, found a cloak for me, large, dark, and woolen, to wrap up in when the weather grew too cold.

  As I stripped out of my dirty tunic and donned a new one, Cassia averted her eyes, as though a man’s flesh embarrassed her. Without looking at me, she gathered the old tunic and dropped it into a corner. Everything else, she hung neatly on pegs.

  “You will need new sandals,” Cassia observed, and I glanced at my old ones. They were well made, only the best for the top gladiators. But I’d worn them all year and the straps were fraying and soiled.

  “I hope the job you found pays much,” I observed as I took up the cloak. “Or we’ll be fleeing the city to avoid being arrested for running up debts.”

  “It will,” Cassia answered with confidence.

  Her lack of worry did not reassure me, though I had to admit her skills in bargaining had let us eat well so far.

  The sun was up, the day warming, by the time Cassia and I walked along the lower slope of the Quirinal, past the shops where I’d had my shave, and to the Esquiline. A wide fountain at the hill’s base drew a crowd of mostly women who filled jugs of cool, flowing water. This was a large fountain with a pillar in the middle and four spouts, each fashioned into a face—the water came out of the mouths.

  The women stared at me in blatant interest as we passed. One set her jug on her bared shoulder and trudged up a narrow, steep street. Cassia shifted that direction. The woman glanced once behind her then ignored us.

  Shops made up the ground floors of five- and six-storied insulae that lined the lower streets of the Esquiline, the buildings towering above us. As the road bent up the hill, the insulae fell away to be replaced by one- and two-storied homes, the domii of the wealthy. Shops were built into these dwellings as well, as owners of the houses saw no reason not to collect extra rent by letting out part of their property.

  I’d been to homes on this hill before, invited by the highborn to perform at suppers, or simply to sit while the dominus’s acquaintances marveled that a dangerous fighting man reposed in the triclinium during a banquet.

  Women had brought me to this hill as well, wealthy matrons craving novelty, though I’d rarely accepted an invitation. Aemil liked to crisply declare he wasn’t running a brothel and that he’d sell a gladiator who brought scandal to his ludus, but some, like Regulus, did sneak away from time to time to be their lovers.

  The slave woman with the jug turned a corner and disappeared into a side door of the very house Cassia halted before.

  The front door of this domus was nearly hidden in a recess between a basket-maker’s and a pastry shop, the latter of which poured out a scent of warm honey to those waiting to purchase the delights. The benches that lined the niche before the door of the house were empty. Here the clients would sit, waiting for the paterfamilias to see them, but usually the appointments were first thing in the morning. We were late.

  The door slave, a young man with lanky hair who lounged on one of the benches, sprang to his feet as I bent my head under the low roof of the entryway.

  The door, wood with its large cross beams studded with bronze, a bronze knob in its center, stood open, letting air into the domus. We must have been expected, because the door slave scurried inside, beckoning us to follow.

  This house was not as large as some of the villas I’d visited, but it was spacious enough. Water quietly trickled into a square basin in the atrium, the basin reflecting the blue sky in the open square above it. Green plants lined the edges of the fountain, and a large gathering of flowers in a vase decorated a lone table on one wall.

  The walls had been painted white, in a new style, replacing blocks of red and black that typically outlined scenes of the outdoors or famous battles. The white walls held intricate lacy patterns of gold draped around clusters of figures. They were soldiers, I saw on closer inspection, but sparring and drilling, not slaying enemies.

  A shrine stood against one of the longer walls, with small statues and several plaster masks that I assumed were the ancestors of the paterfamilias.

  The majordomo of the house, a haughty man with black hair carefully combed in his attempt to hide a bald spot, emerged from a shadowy hall beyond the atrium. He was likely a slave, but a lofty one, like Cassia.

  “You are late,” the majordomo announced.

  “My apologies, Celnus.” Cassia bowed her head. “An unavoidable delay in the streets, and then we had to make ourselves presentable.”

  She spoke with deference but far less tension than I’d seen her with the barber and his customers, or Lucia and Floriana’s ladies. She’d also relaxed with Marcianus. I realized she considered the medicus and this majordomo as her equals—Marcianus in intellect and the majordomo in social status.

  Celnus grunted. “He is waiting. This way.”

  He turned on his heel and marched into the hall on the other side of the atrium. I started after him, but Cassia hung back.

  “You aren’t coming with me?” I asked her in some alarm.

  “Not my place. I will wait.” She glanced out the door at the benches, where the door slave had retreated.

  “I need you with me.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I won’t know what to say.”

  Cassia’s brow furrowed. “You’ve guarded such men before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but Aemil negotiated the post for me. I turned up where he told me to go.”

  “I see.” Cassia’s expression didn’t change, but I couldn’t help feeling I’d sunk in her estimation. “Very well. But only if you order me to.”

  “Do I have to order it?” I truly didn’t know.

  “Yes. If they ask. Better hurry.”

  “All right, then. I order it.”

  I strode off after the majordomo, relieved to hear her pattering behind me.

  Celnus waited rather impatiently for us at a double door at the end of the hall. Whe
n I caught up to him, he gave me a disapproving look then opened one of the doors and led us into a green space.

  This was the garden of the home, a private area. I was surprised the majordomo brought us here, not to the tablinium where the dominus usually met his supplicants. A walkway lined with columns formed a rectangle around green shrubbery and trees, with a long fountain burbling in the exact center of the garden. The walkway was marble, the fountain’s floor covered in mosaics of fish and strange sea creatures.

  A man in a knee-length tunic belted with a rope at the waist leaned over a dark green plant with shining leaves, and carefully snipped a twig. He dropped the twig into a finely woven basket resting on a bench beside him. While his tunic was plain, it was made of finely woven linen, and his belt held the sheen of silk. I knew this wasn’t the gardener.

  The majordomo cleared his throat, and the man glanced up.

  He stood a head shorter than me, about Cassia’s height, and unlike his majordomo, he didn’t try to conceal his baldness. Gray hair, neatly trimmed, framed his ears and was cut short on the back of his neck. A former military man, I guessed, considering the wall paintings I’d observed. He had the bearing and the simplicity of dress of a general who’d spent a lifetime on campaign.

  His nose was large and beaked in a face that was thin but not pinched, his slenderness from strength, not hunger. Here was a man who’d survived wars and the even more dangerous world of politics under Nero.

  “I enjoy tending the gardens.” The man’s apologetic tone was genuine, as though he was ashamed we’d found him thus. “Plants like a bit of care. Like children.”

  I stood without speaking, Cassia slightly behind me. The majordomo radiated disapproval that she’d joined us, but I had no intention of speaking to my potential employer without her.

  “Decimus Laelius Priscus,” the majordomo announced in a strident voice. “Leonidas the Gladiator.” His tone turned disdainful, and he didn’t bother to mention Cassia.

  “Thank you for attending me.” Priscus gestured for Celnus to depart. Celnus clearly didn’t want to, but he walked away, very slowly. He’d probably lurk in the shadows inside the house, waiting for me to bring out a sword to strike his master down.

  “I have watched you in the games.” Priscus ran a gaze over me that held keen assessment. “You fight with great skill but never throw away a move. You do not strike before you are certain. Tell me—I am curious. Why did you not kill Regulus in your final match?”

  I did not even have to think about the answer. “He is my friend.”

  “I see. But with him gone, your reputation would have been that of the gods.”

  I shrugged, the new tunic pulling on my shoulders.

  “You had another friend, I recall. Name of Xerxes.”

  I stiffened. Xerxes had been far closer to me than Regulus. Xerxes would have understood me sparing him and not hated me for it, no matter how much he’d wanted to die.

  Xerxes had very much wanted to live. He’d spoken of what he and I would do once we achieved our freedom, the roads we’d travel, the wonders we’d see.

  He’d been struck down in a match against another gladiator. I’d killed the man who’d slain him in the next round and was laid low with grief for a long while. Aemil had threatened to sell me for wasting his time.

  “Yes.” My answer was simple. “I burned offerings for him.”

  Priscus studied me as I faced him. I didn’t look him directly in the eye but kept my gaze on an Egyptian marble pillar to his right.

  After a long, silent moment, Priscus gave me a nod. “You’ll do. My majordomo is incensed that I am not leaving every detail of hiring you up to him or Kephalos, my scribe, but I like to judge a man for myself. You fight well, but you mourn those who have fallen, and spare others you could easily have killed. That tells me you are a man, not a machine. I need you to accompany me to Ostia Antica. I have valuable cargo to retrieve, and I and the cargo will need much protection.”

  Not an uncommon request. Romans often had business that took them to Ostia, on the coast, either to meet ships from Egypt and farther east or to take care of problems in their warehouses that hirelings or slaves couldn’t manage.

  The road to Ostia was dangerous, with brigands waiting to rob a man of all he had. Most travelers went in caravans or hired fighting men like me to protect them. Costly goods equally needed protecting.

  I bowed my head to show I understood. Whatever Priscus’s reasons for the journey should not concern me. I would accompany him and fight off any who tried to accost him.

  “I warn you beforehand, we will be in grave peril.” Priscus spoke lightly, his eyes taking on a twinkle. “There are those who will try to relieve me of my life, probably before I even reach the port. If they succeed, my friend, you too will be put to death.”

  Chapter 6

  “I hope we live to collect the fee,” Cassia said when we reached our apartment once more. “It is quite a large one.”

  She unwound and neatly hung her palla then took the cloak I’d dumped to a stool and shook it out, smoothing the folds before she hung it on the next peg. I wondered why she’d bother straightening a garment that would only get wet and windblown, but I didn’t mention it.

  Cassia looked pleased with herself. Once Priscus had gained my word that I would protect him on the way to and from Ostia, he dismissed us cordially and went back to his plants. Celnus had taken us to the atrium, where another man had waited—Kephalos, a scribe originally from Smyrna—who had haggled with Cassia over the price.

  I’d listened in fascination as Cassia, who’d barely spoken above a deferential murmur since I’d met her, argued loudly with the scribe about risk to me on the road, the senator’s declaration that I would be killed if he was—not by his own people, Priscus had said quickly. But, he claimed, those who had failed to guard him well in the past had been struck down later. The gods, Priscus supposed. The only explanation.

  Kephalos the scribe had tried to point out I was nothing but a hired freedman, no longer a prized gladiator and so not worth as much. Cassia had come right back with the fact that Priscus himself had approved of me, and that I’d retired at the head of my ludus. She’d clinched the deal by implying that I’d had many other offers, more lucrative than this one, and if Kephalos didn’t want to disappoint his master, he should agree to my price.

  Fifty sestertii. Enough to feed and keep us for many days.

  “What other offers did we have?” I asked her now. “How much were they for?”

  Cassia looked at me in surprise and then gave me a small smile. “No others. I did not so much state that as let Kephalos believe it.”

  Thinking through her conversation with the scribe, I realized Cassia had never actually said I’d had other offers. I had to admire her resourcefulness.

  “Do you think Priscus lied about the danger?” I asked. “To make me guard him more carefully?”

  “I am not certain.” Cassia laid out bowls for the meal we’d purchased on the way home. “Decimus Laelius Priscus is from an old patrician family, one of the most respected in Rome. My former mistress spoke highly of him, and that was a feat. She disliked everyone.” Cassia winced, and I imagined the mistress had taken that dislike out on her household servants, including her scribes. “Priscus has much money but these days not a lot of power. He’s retired and interested in his garden, as we saw. He was a very good friend to the emperor Claudius.”

  Claudius had been Nero’s adoptive father. I was not one for politics, but I knew that not all friends or family of Claudius survived Nero’s rise to power. Some had quietly left the city, while others had been arrested for crimes real and imagined, and executed.

  “Why is Priscus still alive then?” I watched Cassia ladle out the lentil stew and lay the bread in the middle of the table.

  “Who can say? I’ve heard little about him except that he has vast wealth and spends much time reading and gardening. He did not have a lot of power in the senate, though many
friends.”

  And he had money, I finished silently. A man would be respected for that alone, if only in the hope that some of his wealth would fall to those ingratiating themselves with him.

  “Maybe we should have asked for a higher price,” I half joked as I seated myself and lifted a spoon.

  Cassia rewarded me with a fleeting smile. She quickly lost it and retreated to the other side of the table. This time she didn’t wait to be asked to join in the meal, but she did not take her first bite until I’d shoved some stew into my mouth.

  “No garum today,” I said after I swallowed.

  Another brief smile, then Cassia nervously opened her tablet. “A savings.”

  I noisily ate stew, mopping it up with bread. I found a pebble inside the bread, larger than most, and spit it onto the floor. The grit from grinding mills didn’t always come out of the flour before the bread went into the oven.

  “I need to pay Floriana for Lucia,” I said after the silence had stretched. “I’ve been to her twice.”

  I thought to set her at her ease, but she gave me another worried look. “I see.”

  “Though most nights I only sleep.”

  Many believed gladiators lived to enjoy sticking themselves into any woman or man available, but we spent the bulk of our time training or recovering from injuries. Carnal relief was an occasional indulgence, not a way of life, and most of us had our favorites for that. When I was younger I hadn’t been as discriminate, but as I matured, I kept to the woman I liked. Marcianus had explained to me about catching diseases from being too promiscuous, and I needed to be strong to stay alive in the arena. Also, Aemil would turn out a man too sick to fight.

  I don’t know if Cassia understood but she bent her head over her tablet and ceased speaking.

  I left the apartment after our supper and walked to Floriana’s to see how that lady fared. Young Marcia was there to care for her, but Lucia had gone out.