Blood of a Gladiator

by Ashley Gardner

  Cassia went without hurry to a spot near my bed, hunkering down to move one of the stones in the floor. She drew from a recess below it the clinking bag Kephalos had handed her. Lucia watched with interest, as did I. I’d no idea where Cassia had hidden the money.

  Cassia carried the bag to the table, scooped out a handful of coins, and carefully lined them up. The inevitable tablet came out, she making marks as she sorted the coins into stacks.

  “What are you doing?” Lucia demanded of her. “Are you a moneylender now? Just give them to me.”

  She lunged at the table, but I caught Lucia’s arms in a firm grip. “Let her. She’ll know how much you’ll need.”

  Lucia gaped at me but subsided.

  “If you need to hide from bad men, I know where you can do so,” Cassia said. “It is a distance from here, but you should be safe enough.”

  “Leonidas can escort me.”

  Cassia was already shaking her head. “Too many will recognize him and know you are his paramour. Also, you will have to change into a plainer dress. I have one you can wear.”

  Cassia turned to a large wooden box that had not been in the apartment earlier this afternoon. She rummaged through it and emerged with a simple stolla which she shook out. The plain linen was a sharp contrast to Lucia’s worn but garish finery. This was a respectable woman’s garb.

  Without a qualm, Lucia slid from her gown, her bare flesh covered only by a strip of cloth about her hips. Cassia averted her eyes from Lucia’s body but helped her put on the stolla, settling it on her shoulders. A brown cloak came next out of the box, also plain and a bit worn.

  Cassia always dressed so neatly I was surprised she’d purchased a threadbare palla, but I saw that it disguised Lucia well. Cassia bound Lucia’s dyed red hair into a small knot, easily hidden when Cassia arranged the folds of the palla over Lucia’s head.

  Cassia stood back to admire her work. Lucia now looked like any other lower-class woman heading out to fetch water or run an errand for her mistress.

  “There is a house along the Via Appia, at the base of Mount Albanus, near the lake,” Cassia said. “It is called the Domus Ceres. They will take you in, give you sanctuary. Tell them I sent you.”

  “What sort of house?” Lucia asked in suspicion.

  “One that will protect you. You can stay there until it is safe to return to Rome.”

  “How will I know when that will be?”

  “Leonidas will send word.” Cassia pulled a few hard rolls from the basket plus a napkin folded around dried figs. She dropped them into a smaller basket and shoved it all at Lucia. “You should hurry.”

  Lucia sent me an inquiring look, and I nodded in agreement. As much as I would miss being with Lucia, Floriana’s death alarmed me more than I’d admitted. Lucia was right to flee.

  I walked Lucia down the stairs but did not open the door when we reached the bottom. The fewer people who associated the woman in drab clothing with me, the better.

  “Godspeed,” I whispered, pressing a brief kiss to her lips. “I will burn an offering for you.”

  Lucia returned my kiss without heat and glanced behind me up the stairs. “That colorless miss will not please you in bed, I think.”

  “I won’t use her for bed,” I said patiently. “She’s not for that.”

  Lucia’s expression held skepticism. “Do you trust her to lead me to a good place?”

  “Yes.” So far, Cassia had not given me reason to doubt her. “If she says this house is safe, I believe her.”

  “Hmm.” Lucia studied me for a time, then her gaze softened and she kissed me with more warmth. “Farewell, Leonidas. I hope to see you again this side of the Stygian.”

  “I will send for you when it’s safe,” I promised.

  She did not believe me, but that didn’t matter. Lucia touched my cheek, then she opened the door and slipped out into the stream of people pushing their way home for the night. I watched the brown cloak bob in the current, then she was gone.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, Cassia was setting out our supper. I watched her neat, competent movements as she arranged bowls, spoons, and plates in straight lines, her stool in the exact center of her side of the table.

  “You purchased extra clothes.” I plunked down on my stool and reached for the bread.

  Cassia continued serving the food. She’d bought greens dressed with flecks of fruit, oil, and cheese, along with a stew of lentils and beans and a flask of wine.

  “I thought the clothes might be handy.” Cassia seated herself and lifted a spoon. “I didn’t realize they’d find use so soon.”

  “The cloak was frayed.” I wasn’t quite certain how to put my puzzlement into words.

  “If I need to move through the streets without drawing attention, an old cloak is better than a fine garment. No one pays attention to a poor woman or a slave from a meager household.”

  “It is true no one saw you following us in Ostia,” I conceded. “Except me.”

  “You are familiar with me and more observant than most, I am coming to understand.”

  I shoveled stew into my mouth and washed it down with wine. This was a smoother vintage than what we’d drunk before—Cassia was putting Priscus’s coins to good use.

  “I’m a gladiator.” I tapped my knuckles to my head. “Nothing in here.”

  “You are a gladiator who won thirty fights with eight draws and only two losses. I have seen the notices on the streets. You must be a very observant man, and a quick thinker, to do that.”

  I won because I’d trained unceasingly for my bouts, but it was true I never knew what would happen in the amphitheatre. I had to react to the smallest moves my opponent made—or decide not to react. I let my instincts rule, but instinct wasn’t always correct and had to be tempered with experience.

  “Winning a match is not the same thing as living everyday life,” I said.

  “It can be.” Cassia traced the glazed pattern on her wine cup. “I’m sorry Lucia had to leave. I know you are fond of her.”

  I shrugged. I liked Lucia, but I had no illusion about who she was or how many other men she pleasured. “She is not my paramour, as you declared. Will she be truly well in this house you sent her to?”

  “Indeed, yes. My mistress stayed there several times when she traveled between Campania and Rome, and I came to know it well. The domus is run by priestesses of Ceres, and no man may darken its door. Lucia might have to work for her keep, but they will keep danger away.”

  Did I see a glint of satisfaction in her eyes when she mentioned Lucia would have to work? I wondered if, when Lucia was told she’d have to scrub floors or haul water, she’d stay. Even Floriana’s brothel had employed slaves to do the menial tasks for them.

  “Who was your mistress?” I asked in curiosity. Cassia knew much about me—most of my career as a gladiator covered the walls in Rome for all to see—but I knew so little about her.

  “Glaucia Rufinus.” Cassia waited for my reaction, but I’d never heard of the woman. “Her husband, Gaius Petinus, was a consul some years back, very wealthy. He moved to a villa in Campania after his consulship to raise grapes. The villa is beautiful, with a view of the sea.”

  “You father was this Petinus’s scribe?”

  “Scribe, secretary, accountant.” As before when she’d spoken of her father, Cassia’s voice went sad, and she quickly bent to her food.

  “I am sorry.” I laid down my spoon and wiped my mouth on the napkin she’d provided. “I had a friend called Xerxes. I never had a brother, but it was like that. He was killed in the games.”

  Cassia looked up, lips parted. “Oh.”

  “It was very hard to live after that,” I finished.

  “Yes.” The word was soft. “My life changed when my father died. I never realized how much he protected me.”

  “They sold you?”

  Cassia’s eyes flickered. “My mistress did. She had me brought to the slave market here in Rome. Hesiodos purchased me.
I thought I would be working for him, assisting him in his scribal duties, but then he said I’d suit you. I still don’t understand why.”

  I imagined Cassia, afraid and alone, standing in the slave market, a sign around her neck proclaiming what she did. They might have let her wear a stolla, or she might have been only in a loincloth, or naked, so those who shopped for a new servant would have a look at what they were getting.

  My anger stirred at her former mistress, at the slave traders, and even at her father for dying and leaving her alone.

  I drained my wine cup, lifted the flask, and poured more. I filled Cassia’s cup as well. I steadied my voice as I answered her, “I don’t understand why either.”

  Cassia lifted her cup, the humiliation of her ordeal fading from her eyes. She was with me now, and safe.

  “We will simply have to find out,” she said.

  I slept heavily that night, oblivious to the noise in the streets as wagons and carts delivered goods, including wine to the merchant downstairs. My dreams, what there were of them, flitted through my head like ghosts. Xerxes appeared in one, laughing at me from the Elysium fields and raising his wine glass to me as Cassia had done at supper.

  A poke in my side made Xerxes dissolve, his grin fading.

  I pried open my eyes to see Cassia at the end of a slim stick. She was learning.

  Her thick tail of hair tumbled over her shoulder, a black streak on her pale stolla. Her eyes were wide with worry.

  “Hesiodos is here,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “He says he’s come to take you to the Palatine. Nero has asked to see you.”

  Chapter 10

  Hesiodos waited on the street. He gave me an impatient glare when we emerged—I’d had to rise and dress, with no time to run to the barber for a shave.

  Cassia was neatly coiffed, sandals tied, her palla expertly draped over her spotless stolla. Hesiodos had made clear, she’d said, that the summons included her.

  It wasn’t rare for a princeps of Rome to command a gladiator to appear before him. Nero took great interest in gladiatorial games and chariot racing, even more so than many ordinary citizens. I’d performed exhibitions with other gladiators in Nero’s vast gardens in the past. I hoped he would not ask me to perform this morning, but if he did, I’d have no choice but to obey.

  Cassia hid her worry, but it was there. Nero could order her to do anything at all, and she’d have less choice than I. Why Hesiodos insisted Cassia accompany us, I didn’t know. Hesiodos gave me a flat stare when I asked and turned his back to lead us onward.

  We strode down the Argiletum past the Curia to the Forum Romanum. Here, Hesiodos turned to skirt the long, elegant Basilica Aemilia, the shops under its porticos doing brisk business while people streamed into and out of the halls inside. Past the Temple of the Vestals, we left the Sacra Via and made our way up the steep ramp to the Palatine.

  I was struck by the quiet on the hill. We left behind the shouts and stench of the Roman streets to emerge into open spaces and green gardens.

  Since the reign of Augustus, none but the princeps could build on the Palatine, and so it had become a vast complex for the ultimate rulers of Rome.

  Nero currently occupied the domii begun by Tiberius and expanded by Gaius during his brief reign, but Nero had begun construction on a building that would join all the palaces together, with walkways and large rooms full of light and air. Part of the hill had been leveled for the terrace on which the house would be built. Domus Transitoria, Marcianus had told me it was called.

  Men labored there, some hoisting blocks with cranes similar to the ones we’d seen in Ostia. Others built wooden frameworks that would support concrete vaulted ceilings until they were dried and cured. I glanced their way, my interest quickening. The mundane sight of builders easing blocks to the tops of walls, the sounds of hammering, and the shouts of orders and questions somewhat eased my anxiety.

  A stern-faced man met Hesiodos and led us away from the builders and through a gate to a large inner courtyard.

  Mosaics under my feet showed beautiful goddesses offering plates of plenty to visitors, as well as warriors of old flexing their muscles. This entryway, lined with expertly carved friezes, gave way to a courtyard, with a large fountain laid out in four arced shapes with statues on each corner.

  We moved past this, the spray chilling the air, and under a colonnade to a wide and quiet room with another fountain. Arched walls soared above us, echoing the whisper of sandals on marble as the functionaries hurried about on their duties.

  The stern-faced man bade us to wait and disappeared under one of the arches. Hesiodos wandered from us, as though not wanting to be seen with a lowly gladiator and the woman who worked for him.

  Cassia studied the mosaics and carved pillars with interest. The tall marble fountain in the middle of the room featured a nymph pouring water from an urn into a bowl. Cassia’s nervousness came to me in waves, but in spite of that, she paused in appreciation of the artwork.

  The stern man returned, beckoning us without a word. Instead of joining us, Hesiodos hung back, gesturing for us to accompany the palace servant. Cassia and I started after the man, but when I turned to look for Hesiodos, I saw him strolling toward the open courtyard.

  Cassia and I exchanged a tense glance as we followed the other man in silence.

  We went up a short flight of stairs and out into a peristyle garden, its walkway lined with columns of yellow, gray, and red marble. An open end of the garden overlooked the western ridge of the Palatine, probably with a view of the Circus Maximus, though I could not see from where I stood.

  A young man with a head of thick dark curls reposed artfully on a bench between two of the columns, one foot on the seat as he leaned against the pillar behind him. He held a lyre that he softly strummed.

  The man who’d led us in turned around without a word and stalked out. I noted guards in the shadows of the walkway, thick-hilted swords at their sides, one posted at the end of the garden near the overlook.

  The young man on the bench began to sing.

  The song, in Latin, was about a beautiful woman in love with a man, the lovers kept apart. They managed to elude those who forbade them to be together, experiencing one night of happiness before dying tragically. To me, it was a cloying and repetitious tale, but Cassia listened with shining eyes.

  The piece ended, and the young man sighed and laid down the lyre. He rose, carefully stretching his limbs before deigning to speak to us.

  “You liked it,” he said to Cassia with approval.

  Cassia instantly sank to her knees, hiding her face on the floor. She, a female slave, should not look upon the highest citizen in the land. I also dropped down, in case the princeps lost his temper and ordered one of the guards to decapitate me on the spot. My right knee throbbed as it hit the floor—it hadn’t healed all the way from the bout that had gained me my freedom.

  “Stand up, my friends,” Nero said. His voice was almost musical, smooth and low-pitched. “Within this room, we are friends. You liked my song.”

  I helped Cassia to her feet as Nero waited. She nodded, readjusting the folds of her cloak. “Beautiful. Like Limenius.”

  “Ah, you understand. You are Greek, Hesiodos tells me. We must not expect the gladiator to think as we do.”

  I kept my face blank, like the stupid fighting man I was supposed to be.

  “Let’s have another.” Nero resumed his lyre, seated himself, and started to play again.

  I made myself not shift in impatience. I’d endured this before—Nero had a need to entertain others before others were allowed to entertain him. Many despised him for this, but not, of course, in his presence.

  Cassia enjoyed the song, which was in Greek this time, so I did not understand any of it. I assumed it was good. Cassia did not strike me as a woman who flattered without sincerity.

  “Excellent.” She applauded softly when Nero finished. He smiled at her, a large, genuine smile, relieved he’d found someone who app
reciated his talent.

  “Now then, my friends.” Nero at last set aside the lyre and rubbed his hands, as though they ached from the playing. “You must be agog to know why I’ve summoned you. It is simple. You guarded a man—Decimus Laelius Priscus—on his way to and from Ostia. Helped rescue his son from kidnappers.”

  I was not surprised the story had reached the Palatine. Priscus had reported the crime, and the sensational tale must be the main topic at suppers all over Rome by now.

  Cassia and I nodded in silence, neither of us foolish enough to speak without permission.

  “I would like you to continue protecting him,” Nero said. “I fear for his life. Such an old man, who has made many enemies in his time.”

  Priscus seemed robust for his age. However Nero was a few years younger than I, and to him, Priscus must seem ancient.

  Cassia had told me that Priscus had been a friend to Claudius. Not all Claudius’s followers had supported Nero—Nero had been the man’s adopted son, displacing and later killing Claudius’s legitimate heir, Britanicus.

  Now Nero sounded sympathetic to Priscus, worried about him, which was strange. I knew, though, that personal considerations sometimes outweighed political ones … sometimes.

  “Be diligent,” Nero went on. “Nothing must happen to Priscus, nothing at all. I brought you here to emphasize that point. Naturally, I could have simply sent you word.”

  I’d wondered about that. Nero must want more from us than an audience for his music and a warning he could have given us via messenger.

  Nero ran an assessing gaze over me. “I must congratulate you, Leonidas. Freedom from the games is quite an achievement. However, I trust you will demonstrate your talent for me from time to time, when I request it.”

  I bowed my head and murmured, “Of course, sir.”

  “After you watch over Priscus for me. See that he remains home in the coming days.”