Sword of the Gladiatrix

by Faith L Justice

  “This way.” Clio pointed to the left as they drew closer. “The standard with the mark of Mercury.”

  Afra looked up to see a crudely drawn winged sandal on a wooden sign.

  Mercury, god of commerce, thieves, and travelers; a fitting choice for Marcius after Fortuna deserted him.

  Clio approached a bald round Roman with twinkling eyes, which seemed inappropriate for his profession. They talked in low tones. Afra shifted the weight off her aching ankle, wishing she could put her burden down during negotiations. Finally, after much arm waving, coins and a paper passed hands. Clio and the round Roman approached.

  “My condolences, dear madam, on your loss.” The funeral director lightly supported Clio’s elbow. “Have your slaves place the body on that pile,” he indicated a prepared stack of wood, chest high, cut from the ubiquitous poplar groves surrounding the city. A dozen identical pyres, awaiting their burdens, trooped in an orderly line. “Are you sure you want no singers or dancers to send your husband on his last journey?”

  “No. Just the burning and the burial.”

  “An oration? A container? A marker?”

  “I told you, my husband failed to join a funeral club, so this is all paid by me.” Clio frowned at the man. “Should I take my custom elsewhere?”

  “As you wish.” The funeral director sighed. “My assistant will see to your…uh…needs.” He called over an undernourished young man, dressed in a well-made dark blue tunic, and turned to deal with the next client.

  They lowered the bier onto the pyre. Marcius’ face looked peaceful, but Afra knew the rough grain sacks wrapping the body covered fearsome bruises; the flatness of the chest indicating where the column crushed his ribs. The assistant poured a jar of oil over the body and applied a torch to the kindling in the middle of the pyre. The oil-soaked body and wood blazed hot enough to send them back a few steps, coughing.

  “He will take a while to burn.” The assistant provided Clio with a folding camp stool. “May I bring you some wine?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Clio settled onto the stool. The thin man brought her a plain clay goblet. From the face she made, Afra concluded it was sour stuff, well-watered, or both.

  Cinnia touched her shoulder. “Over there.”

  She pointed to a patch of grass under a poplar tree away from the fires. There was still a touch of winter in the air, but the fires heated the surroundings. The smoke settled in Afra’s throat.

  “Yes.”

  She limped to the tree, settled onto the grass, and took a drink of water from a leather flask. “Want some?” Afra offered the flask.

  “Thanks.” Cinnia took a drink and sat staring into the flames. “This seems a rather poor beginning for Marcius’ journey.”

  “Marcius became a friend to me, as well as master, but he had many faults. I doubt Clio has the money for anything better.”

  “She keeps a plump sack of coins hidden in a false bottom in her chest.”

  “I doubt Marcius knew, or it would have disappeared.” Afra frowned. “Where did she get the money?”

  “When you two go away, she dances in the marketplace with her snake. I sing.” Cinnia grinned. “She also lightened Marcius’ purse by a couple of coins each time he got drunk. I suspect she has a good deal put aside.”

  “Did she give you any of the take when you sang?”

  “No.”

  “Wretched woman!” Afra hunched her shoulders. “Marcius always gave me a few coins. How else can a slave buy back her freedom?”

  “How much do you have?”

  “Not enough.”

  “What happens to us now?”

  “I don’t know.” Afra rested her chin on her knees. “I’m supposed to hunt in the Emperor’s games celebrating Cerealia in April. That’s two months. Marcius seemed to think I could earn my freedom quickly, once I hunted in the Roman arena.”

  “Will Clio honor the contracts?”

  Afra shrugged. “She has no reason not to. My life debt was to Marcius, but I see no way to escape Clio…now. The Romans are too many and the roads well watched. You’ve seen the wretches nailed upside down to crosses outside the city walls?”

  Cinnia nodded.

  “Escaped slaves. Crucified as a warning to others.”

  “Sometimes death is better than life filled with pain, or a life with no honor or purpose.” Cinnia’s put her arm around Afra’s waist. “You are my reason for being here.”

  “Not the gods?” Afra leaned into Cinnia.

  “Yes…and no.” Cinnia laid her head on Afra’s shoulder. “I’ve pondered much since you pulled me back from the shadow world. You told me about the god-sent dream that foretold your journey. My gods abandoned me…or so I thought. My family, my queen dead; yet I live. For what purpose? To serve a spiteful, cheap woman? The gods brought us together, but you’re the reason I stay. Without you to hold me in this world, I would leave it.”

  Afra shuddered and sought Cinnia’s hand. “We might choose death or it might choose us. But today we live. Today we love. Do not give up that life or love easily today or tomorrow or the next day. Everything changes.”

  “Sometimes, at night, I feel the pull of the shadow world. Not death, but endless wandering.” She squeezed Afra’s hand. “Then I wake up and touch you; your solid flesh and strong arms. This is the world I belong in, the one with you in it.”

  Afra sat still, listening to her lover’s breathing. Cinnia looked so strong in the flesh, yet she carried unhealed wounds in her heart.

  As the funeral pyre started to die, Afra took off her necklace with the small carved figure of Isis, and put it around Cinnia’s neck. “This has nestled between my breasts, lifted with my breath, and listened to my heart. Now I give it to you. May the Mother protect you and give you good dreams.”

  “I can’t…” Cinnia tried to give it back.

  “This is my promise to you. The gods brought us together. With this, a part of me will always be with you to ward off the shadows.”

  “But I have nothing…” Cinnia’s face broke into a grin. She yanked several long blond hairs from her head and deftly braided them into a thin band which she tied around Afra’s wrist. “There! Now you have part of me as well.”

  They beamed at each other until a shadow blocked the lowering sun.

  Clio.

  “A fine pair you are, grinning like children at play when we’re here to bury my husband.” She poked Cinnia with her foot. “Get up, lazy mule. It’s time to sing for your supper. I couldn’t afford the professionals, but you’ll do. Marcius may have been a no-good, shit-for-brains, son of a diseased whore, but he was my husband, and deserves some beauty at his leave-taking.”

  Afra was surprised to see a tear well in the corner of Clio’s kohled eyes, and track down her cheek to her bitter mouth. Maybe the snake woman did have some affection for Marcius. Or maybe she was maudlin drunk on the sour wine.

  Seeing Afra’s glance, Clio dashed the tears from her eyes and stomped off to oversee the assistant ladling Marcius’ hot ashes out of the dying fire into a plain crockery wine jug. Another fitting symbol.

  The small party of four walked to a line of shallow holes, dug into the rich soil. At the first open hole, Clio handed the assistant a plain wooden plank with Marcius’ name, age, and occupation carved in it. He hammered it into the soil to mark the spot, deposited the jug in the hole, and stood awkwardly to the side with a spade.

  Clio knelt by the grave and threw in something Afra couldn’t see. The widow rose. Cinnia broke into a haunting song. Afra didn’t understand the words, but the dirge-like tune seemed appropriate.

  Afra approached the grave and whispered. “Good-by, my friend. May your soul find peace in the Roman afterlife.” She nearly choked as a sob turned to a coughing laugh. Four dice sat in the cooling ashes showing I, III, IV and VI—the luckiest of all throws, the Venus.

  ***

  “THANK THE GODS THAT’S OVER.” Clio pulled the veil from her hair with a sigh after the purific
ation ritual at Juno’s altar. “Now I can do business again. To the magistrate.”

  The nine days of mourning hadn’t prevented Clio from renting out Afra and Cinnia as members of the slave gangs employed in cleaning up the city. After hours of hauling baskets of rubble to carts, they came home each night exhausted and coughing from the dust—too tired to do more than fall asleep in each other’s arms. The grueling work and little food left Afra feeling drained, dull. Today had been their first day off since Marcius’ funeral.

  Afra and Cinnia followed Clio, from the temporary altar to Juno, down the line of people in need of the purification services. Most had buried family, but there was a woman comforting an older man with vacant eyes. Lost souls like him frequented the streets, walking unseeing or raving, until someone came to lead them home. Afra shook her head. If Clio wasn’t in such a hurry she would have sent the woman to the old herbalist next to the Temple of Isis…if she survived.

  They walked through the destroyed Forum toward the basilica. Reconstruction was starting on the more important buildings: the Temples to Jupiter and Apollo. Scaffolding surrounded the basilica. Sail-cloth flapped over a hole in the roof. They walked up cracked steps, into the echoing building.

  Clio stopped a couple of clerks to ask directions and they found themselves in front of a young man with large sad eyes. “Your business?”

  “Magistrate, I am a poor widow,” Clio bowed, “come to register my husband’s will and take possession of these slaves as my property.” A tear formed at the corner of her left eye and tracked unheeded down her cheek.

  “Papers?”

  Clio pulled out two scraps of papyrus and a formal looking scroll sealed with wax. “My husband’s will as witnessed by and sealed with the sign of the Vestal Virgins. These are receipts for the purchase of these two slaves.”

  “Do you have proof of your relationship with,” the magistrate squinted at the will, “Lucius Marcius?”

  Clio pulled out two more pieces of papyrus. “The testimony of Julia Felix, our landlady that we lived as husband and wife in her inn for the time we resided in Pompeii and the receipt from the undertaker for my husband’s burial nine days ago.”

  The magistrate broke the seal on the will with a knife, read quickly, and looked up. “Which one is Afra?”

  “The tall Ethiopian.”

  “Of course.” The magistrate’s lips twitched at the corners. “It says here, she is to have her freedom and be known as Marcia Afra. Any transfer fees are to come from his estate.”

  “What?” Clio screeched and grabbed the will from the magistrate’s hands. “That lying, no-good son of a raddled whore. How can he leave me destitute like this?” This time the tears were real. “May his shade wander the earth in torment until the world’s end.”

  “I’m free?” Afra blinked in incomprehension.

  “And a Roman citizen. All freed slaves of Roman citizens are accorded citizenship at manumission.” The magistrate nodded at Clio. “As soon as she pays the fee, I’ll make out your paperwork.”

  Free! Marcius kept his word! Afra saw the anguished look on Cinnia’s face.

  “And Cinnia?”

  “The slave known as Cinnia and,” he squinted closely at the will again, “a pair of trained cheetahs, plus all his clothes, and money go to the widow.” He glanced at the furious Clio. “The transfer fee for Marcia Afra is two bronzes.”

  “I’ll not pay to lose my own slave.”

  The magistrate frowned.

  “I can pay.” Afra fished two coins from her own slender peculium.

  The magistrate scribbled on a blank piece of papyrus and imprinted it with a signet ring. “Here is your manumission. Guard it well, citizen.” He nodded toward Cinnia and addressed Clio. “Does she have any skills?”

  “None that are useful,” Clio mumbled. “She can’t even sew a good seam.”

  “You can always register her as a prostitute.” He pointed at another table. “Over there.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Clio bowed out of the magistrate’s presence and snapped her fingers at Cinnia.

  Afra loomed over Clio. “You’re not going to register Cinnia as a prostitute.”

  “I’ll do as I please.” She glared up at Afra. “My gods-cursed husband liked playing the bones. Besides her, I’ve nothing but Astarte, a broken contract with the procurator, and the threats of moneylenders. You,” she poked a long-nailed finger in Afra’s chest, “will deliver those cheetahs. I might be able to convince the procurator to take them in your stead for the games. She,” pointing her finger at Cinnia, “is worth more on her back than on her feet.”

  “I have a little money. I can earn more.”

  Clio’s mouth compressed into a thin line. She hissed between clenched teeth. “He paid you far too much.”

  “Marcius was an honorable man. He promised me my freedom, if I worked for him willingly.”

  Clio turned her back.

  “Please!” Afra grabbed her arm holding out the peculium. “You can have it all now. I’ll work for you to buy Cinnia.”

  “I’ll think on it.” Clio looked at the slim purse then sniffed. “Not much. Have those cheetahs ready tomorrow morning. We’ll talk then.” She dragged a dazed Cinnia away to the inn.

  “I’ll come for you!” Afra shouted to Cinnia. “Stay strong!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I WON’T DO IT,” CINNIA RAGED.

  “You bloody bitch.” Clio raised a rod to beat her, but Cinnia caught her wrist and twisted until the rod fell. Clio pulled back rubbing her wrist. “Do you know the penalty for a slave attacking her mistress?”

  “Death?” Cinnia laughed, a note of hysteria tingeing her voice. “I’ll kill myself before I let another Roman man touch me like that!”

  “Roman men, is it?” A calculating look came over Clio’s face. “Are you a tribade? Do you like to poke or be poked?” At Cinnia’s confused look, Clio rolled her eyes. “Do you play the man or the woman?”

  “I’m a woman.”

  “By all the gods, you are a dense barbarian.” Clio stroked her chin. “But that does explain a lot. You and Afra?”

  Blood rose in a tide to burn Cinnia’s cheeks.

  “Why the blush? Don’t you look at the pictures at the baths?”

  “It is not forbidden here?”

  “Romans don’t care about such provincial attitudes. A few philosophers rail against ‘unnatural’ women, but what goes on in private homes and brothels is ignored.” Clio raised an eyebrow. “But that doesn’t mean you can do as you please. I need money. Better it is earned on your back than on mine.”

  I’ll come for you.

  Cinnia closed her eyes and prayed.

  ***

  “WAKE UP.” Clio shook Cinnia, slapping her when she didn’t respond. Cinnia stood up without speaking.

  Clio looked at her closely. “So that’s the way of it? Well don’t think feigning madness will get you out of work.” She rummaged through her wooden trunk, pulled out a string knitted tunic, and held it up for the light to shine through. “Alexandrian. The Egyptians know how to show off their women. Put it on.” Clio tossed it Cinnia.

  The tunic dropped to the floor. Blood rushed into Clio’s face. “Stupid mule.” She grabbed her rod and beat Cinnia on the shoulders and buttocks.

  Pain lanced across her back.

  I’ll come for you.

  But until then?

  Everything changes.

  Cinnia grabbed the rod. “Enough.”

  “Speaking again are you?” Clio put her hands on her hips. “Pick up that tunic and put it on.”

  Cinnia obeyed, blushing to her hair roots. The thing showed more flesh than it concealed. She had only to get through this one day. She would deal with tomorrow, tomorrow.

  “You won’t have to wear it long.” Clio laughed. “Come along.”

  They traveled the Via Stabia beyond the Via dell’Abbondanza, north of the Forum. Clio turned down an alley and stopped at an entrance to a
two-story building on the corner. A crack streaking up one side wall and a tarp on the roof showed the earthquake had touched it lightly. Graffiti painted on the walls indicated they were in the right place. Cinnia looked at the rude drawings through eyes blurred with tears. Her vision darkened and narrowed.

  No. I have to stay in this world. Afra will come for me.

  Clio knocked on the door with her foot. An old man, blind by the cast in his eyes, opened the door.

  “I wish to speak with the owner about renting a room.”

  “Around the corner. Take the stairs to the second floor.” The old man pointed toward an intersecting alley.

  Clio grumbled at the stairs, but put on a pleasant face when a short rotund man answered her knock at the top of the stairs.

  “Do I have the pleasure of addressing the owner of this establishment?”

  “I’m Varro. My partner is out at the moment.” He stepped back, indicating they should enter. “Please have a seat.”

  Clio settled on a backless, but well-padded chair, while Cinnia stood behind her. Varro took a seat behind a table.

  “I’m Clio, a poor widow. My husband was taken by the gods’ scourge.” Clio and Varro bowed their heads making the two-fingered sign to ward off bad luck. “He left me with nothing but this slave. I wish to rent one of your rooms and put her to work.”

  “Do you have papers? I run a legitimate business.”

  “I registered her yesterday.” Clio reached into a fold of her tunic and pulled out the registration papers. “What are your terms?”

  Cinnia’s breath quickened.

  Just one day. I can survive one day. Everything changes.

  “The rent is two denarii a day and fifty percent of her take. Here are the fees we charge the customers for the various services. He indicated a wooden board hanging behind his head.

  “Will I get a discount if I take the room for a week or more? And fifty percent? How can you cheat a poor widow so?” Clio wrung her hands. “Ten percent is fairer.”

  Varro leaned back in his chair, a smile tugging at his lips. They bargained for a few moments, settling on a lower weekly rate and twenty-five percent.