Uptown Local and Other Interventions

by Diane Duane

  Rich people weren’t anything Lucius cared about one way or another…but still, the silk was really beautiful. It drifted lower, blowing toward the wet claggy mud of the cart path. Lucius went after it as the breeze gusted around the building, leaping up to catch one end just before it landed in the mire. Then he stared at it.

  Now what? How do I find out whose this is? There could be ten thousand women up there, freeborn, slave or noble, and probably all of them would say it was theirs. Lucius stood there irresolute, trying to decide what to do.

  He turned to look at the first-floor gates, and from Gate Twenty-Four came a subdued glow that resolved into a glitter of golden armor, a white tunic, a kilt of white and gold, high-laced white leather sandals as their wearer strode out into the sunlight. The big burly red-haired man stood there for a moment, craning his neck to see around or over the crowd that was starting to gather around him.

  Then he saw Lucius with the veil, and headed straight toward him.

  Lucius stopped breathing. Some of the crowd that had come out after the man were still following him. He turned as he walked, waving them away, laughing, and the sun glanced off the polished helmet under his arm with a blinding flash like a star fallen to earth.

  It can’t be, Lucius thought. But he knew the white ostrich-feather wings on that helmet’s griffin crest, and the multiple bands of white enamel just above the broad brim. Everybody who followed the Games knew the trademarks of the Neronian gladiator school’s most famous superstar. But what’s he coming at me for? Unless... The veil! Did I do something wrong? But what—?

  Lucius stared at his face. It really is him! There was the scar from last year, one of the very few he’d ever gotten: he was that good. “Boy,” the man said as he got closer, “where’d you find that?”

  “It fell from the top level, sir,” Lucius managed to say, and then instantly blushed hot. He was in a sports fan’s dream, but had no idea how to act or even speak to a top-level gladiator if one spoke to you.

  The gladiator looked over at the mud of the nearby cart-track and his eyes widened a little. All Lucius’s worries vanished when he saw how broadly the man grinned at him. “You saved it from landing in that mess? Nice catch.”

  Lucius swallowed, overwhelmed by the compliment, and held out the veil. But the resplendent figure just glanced over his shoulder then waved it away. “Hang onto it for a moment longer,” he said. “We’re waiting for someone. What’s your name, son?”

  “Lucius.”

  “I’m Hilarus.”

  “I know.”

  “A fan, eh?”

  Lucius put his head up, emboldened, and grinned back. “I work here,” he said. “I follow the business.”

  “Aha…a fellow professional. Don’t tell me: you want to be a gladiator someday.”

  Lucius shook his head. “No. A coach.”

  “Smart kid,” Hilarus said. “There’s money in that, if you can learn what you need to. And you don’t have to be a gladiator to learn.” Hilarus glanced quickly over his shoulder again. “So how do you like today’s card?”

  Lucius had been thinking about little else. “If I was a betting man,” he said, “I’d have something on the third fight.”

  Now Hilarus laughed out loud. “‘If?’ Everyone bets in Rome. The question is, which way?”

  “You’re fourteen for fourteen, with thirteen crowns for technical merit,” Lucius said. “The other guy’s two for six, and none. Looks obvious to me.”

  “To a lot of people,” Hilarus said. “And today, I wouldn’t argue. But if the fix was in—” He looked over his shoulder again and his grin moderated itself. “Here she comes. Make me look good…”

  A flurry of rose and white came out of Gate Twenty-Four, a silken palla-robe stirred to a flutter by the breeze that blew around the base of the building. The woman wrapped in it wore no veil, but scurrying behind her came a gaggle of high-end slaves burdened with parasols and cushions and feathery fans and picnic hampers. They all paused as the woman did, looking around. Hilarus caught her eye and raised a hand. Behind his back, the gladiator’s other hand made a fist at Lucius, then stuck out two fingers in the Help me out here! gesture. Lucius looked at it for a moment, then put one end of the veil in that fist as it opened. He didn’t let go of the other end.

  The whole brightly-dressed crowd moved toward them, the lady foremost. Lucius bowed deeply: and Hilarus extended the hand holding his end of the veil.

  “You have it!” she said. “I thought it would be floating in Father Tiber by now.”

  “No, madam,” Hilarus said, and bowed again. “But someone should have told you that it wouldn’t go into the arena from where you threw it. This time of day, the wind’s from the west. Anything this light goes up under the east-side awnings and out. I’ve seen a hundred veils go that way…”

  “I dare say you have,” she said, giving him a wicked look. “But I’m glad not to have lost this to anyone I didn’t know.” She smiled at Hilarus, and took the veil. “And the small one helped you? You must have run very quickly!”

  “We both ran for it, Great Lady,” Lucius said, eyeing the width of the golden border on her robe. It was heavy bullion wire, and he didn’t think his honorific was going too far. “But he caught the other end, that would have gone in the mud.”

  “And I missed such a chase!” the lady said, with an attractive pout. “Better sport than anything in the arena—especially after you ran out.” She gave Hilarus an amused look. “You should have seen the Emperor’s face.”

  “Normally his commands are my first concern,” Hilarus said, bowing slightly. “But some of us owe other allegiances: such as the one to Queen Venus.”

  The lady smiled again. “We should go back,” she said to Hilarus, “before Titus starts wondering too much. I’ll find a way to show my gratitude… Later. But as for you, young sir—”

  She smiled at Lucius, bending down to meet his eyes more closely, and reached out to take his hand. All his calculating and rather mercenary thoughts of reward left Lucius’s head in a rush, drowned in the darkness of her hair and eyes. Up close, she smelled wonderful, like roses. Then he felt something cool and heavy against his palm. It wasn’t easy to look away from her, but when he did he goggled at a glinting disc—a whole denarius—with the Emperor’s head on it, round and thick-necked and bald.

  “Lady…” he said. “Thank you!”

  “Her, certainly,” Hilarus said, with a smile at the lady. “But perhaps you should thank Queen Venus too. Any wise man is glad to be in her debt.”

  The lady straightened up, draped the rosy veil over her head and drew it down in a gesture of amused modesty that hid nothing. “Only the wise ones?” she said, and gave the gladiator a look that Lucius had seen often enough on the girls up in the stands….

  Even overwhelmed as he was, Lucius had the presence of mind to bow again, to both of them. Then, blinded by the absolute wonder of the moment, he hurried back toward the Colosseum gates, his fist clenched around the coin.

  As if by some evil magic, a tall thin form stepped out of the shadows and straight-armed him. Lucius staggered, caught his balance again, and found himself staring at Catharis. “You’re gonna get it,” the bigger boy sang softly, smiling his usual nasty smile. “You’re gonna get it…”

  “I wouldn’t get anything if you weren’t opening your big yap all the time.”

  Catharis snickered. “Master says, where’s the silk he sent you for?”

  “I haven’t been to Milla’s yet. I’m going now.”

  “So where’ve you been?”

  Lucius scowled. “None of your business, you squatsponge!”

  Catharis’s eyes went narrow. “You can’t talk to me like that! I’ll tell Master—”

  “Tell him whatever you want,” Lucius said, and ran off in the direction of the Forum. Just this once he was completely unmoved by the threat. I don’t have to take this squat. Five minutes ago I was talking to Hilarus! And that great lady, like some kind
of foreign queen!

  “You come back here!” Catharis yelled, but Lucius ignored him. He’ll go right back and tattle to Mancipuer. So let him. I’ll take my beating. I’ve got something to make up for it! As he ran, Lucius reached inside his tunic, pulled out the little amulet-bag that hung hidden around his neck, and hid the denarius in it.

  He made his way through the Forum to the arcaded side alley where Milla the cloth-seller had her stall. It was a multicolored forest of bolts of cloth, mostly standing on end, some stacked up like cordwood, and usually one or two rolled out on the marble of the streetside slab. As Lucius approached he saw with astonishment that the slab was covered with thin crimson-colored silk. That was when he started thinking he might not get beaten after all. “Milla—how much of this have you got?”

  “How much do you want?” she said, emerging from the back of the stall. As usual, Lucius wondered how so round a woman could be invisible in so small a space.

  “Thirty ells. On the Master’s account—”

  “Lucky you. Thirty is what I’ve got,” Milla said. “Take it. I’ll send the tally sticks around later.”

  She rolled up the silk and loaded it into Lucius’s arms. He staggered under the weight, but didn’t care: as he made his way back out through the Forum, Lucius had the strangest feeling that his luck had changed. Even in the dark warren of the tunnels, some golden outside light seemed to have followed him in—even when he turned the last corner and found Mancipuer examining the badly-done paint job on a snorting pygmy elephant.

  “See, master!” Catharis said. “I told you. He didn’t even start for the stall until I went out and told him to get moving. And now he’s back with some shoddy—”

  “Thirty ells of crimson, sir,” Lucius said, bringing the bolt over for Mancipuer to see. “Just the kind you wanted.”

  Scowling, Mancipuer reached out to finger the fabric—then turned that scowl back on Catharis. “I don’t mind if he takes the time to do the work right,” he said. “Unlike some people, in so much in a rush to get done with our own work that we botch it. Lucius, you and Makron start getting that stuff stretched out on the frames he just built. Afterwards you can have the afternoon to yourself. As for you—” he gave Catharis a clout upside the head, “scrub this poor creature off and start over. We’ve four more to do.”

  “Yes, master,” Catharis said humbly, but when Mancipuer’s back was turned he shot a furious glare at Lucius. Lucius paid no attention, but went to help old Makron with the silk. He did the next hour’s work in a half-dream, feeling the little bag against his chest, and thinking again and again, I talked to Hilarus…!

  As soon as he was done, Lucius ran off before Mancipuer could change his mind. As he went, feeling the bag thump against his chest, the thought came to him, staggering. He had money.

  He could buy the murmillo!

  Lucius stopped and leaned against an archway, gulping, almost in shock at the thought of actually spending the one piece of money he had ever owned. But at the same time…

  …the murmillo!

  He took a breath so deep it felt to be worth about three, and made his way to the center aisle, to Strabo’s stall. A few feet away he stopped, as he always did, to just stare at the rows of figures. They came in all kinds and sizes—Thracians with their typical curved sica swords; retiarius netmen with tridents; secutor “chasers” in egg-shaped helmets… And finally Lucius’s favorites, the murmillones with their big shields and crested, cowl-brimmed helmets.

  All the figures came in several models and price ranges. The collectors’ editions, done in silvered or even gilt iron with bronze accessories, were intended for the high-end market. Then came the wooden ones, carved with helmets that could open and close; the figures had mobile jointed arms, and hands socketed to take small bronze swords. Once you had the basic figure, you could buy clip-on armor for it, and have it decorated with designs like your favorite fighter. The cheapest ones were plain terracotta; nothing moved, and they were fragile, but a clever workman could paint on the armor and even do a sketchy version of your favorite gladiator’s face under the visor of the open helmet.

  For Lucius, even the pottery murmillo had been an impossible dream. But now he could even afford one of the metal ones. And still get change back from the denarius!

  Lucius took a deep breath and stepped up to the slab. Strabo turned and looked down, a long way down, at Lucius He was tall and thin and gray-haired, with watery pale eyes that looked straight through you.

  “Huh,” he said. “You.” And he started to turn away.

  “No, wait!”

  Strabo wasn’t a mean-looking man, but he had a face in which every deep-creased line seemed to say Don’t waste my time. “Why? What if a paying customer comes along?”

  Lucius looked up and down the aisle, and Strabo followed his glance. No one showed the slightest sign of coming near them. “All right,” Strabo said resignedly. “You’re ‘just looking’, right? At the murmillo again?”

  He reached for one of the plain pottery ones and set it right in front of Lucius’s nose. “It’s just the same as the last time…”

  “Not that one,” Lucius said, reaching into the collar of his tunic to fish out his amulet-bag. “One of the wooden ones.”

  Strabo opened his mouth. Before he could say a word, Lucius pushed the denarius at him.

  “How’d you come by money like that all of a sudden?”

  “A lady gave it to me.”

  “Oh really.” Strabo oozed disbelief.

  “The lady,” said Lucius, “who came out after Hilarus.”

  The watery eyes opened wider. “Oh really,” he said again, but this time the tone was different. He moved the terracotta murmillo back to its place and brought forward one of the olive-wood ones. Lucius took it in his hands and examined it carefully. The carving was good, the fighter’s stance very natural. There was a nick in the left upper thigh where the carver’s knife had slipped, but the damage was sanded down and otherwise it was perfect. Lucius handed it back. “That’ll do.”

  “How do you want it?” Strabo said. “Parchment armor?”

  “Bronze,” Lucius said. He might never be able to afford his own action figure again: he was going to do this right.

  “Wooden sword?”

  “Iron.”

  “All right,” Strabo said. He started rummaging among the paintpots and tools on the shelf behind him.

  “…Who was she?” Lucius said after a moment.

  “With that many slaves, and sitting near the Emperor? Someone important.” He picked through the wicker trays under the slabs until he found a short straight sword about the length of his little finger. “But it’s the kind of thing you won’t ask anybody else about, if you’re smart…”

  Lucius watched carefully as Strabo wrapped quilted muslin around the wooden figure’s upper arm, then tied the metal arm-guard on top with linen thread. He checked to make sure everything still moved, and plugged the little iron blade into the hole in its clenched fist. “Watch out for this,” he said. “It’s soft, it’ll bend. You break it, you don’t get a replacement.”

  “I won’t break it,”

  The kilt and broad belt went on, padding for the legs and a pair of greaves secured with more linen thread, and finally the tall Army-pattern shield. Strabo picked up the helmet, checking that the faceplate grille went up and down correctly, then looked at the plain crest. “What color?”

  Lucius meant to say, “White and gold,” but a memory of the lady’s rose-red veil stopped him. “Make it red,” he said.

  Strabo dipped the brush in a nearby paint-pot and a moment later the crest was scarlet with terra-cotta and gesso paint. Two tiny feathers went into the sockets either side. Then he smiled, pointed the brush carefully with his fingers and painted a garland of roses above the brim of the helmet. Not an unusual decoration, and calculated to catch the ladies’ eyes.

  Lucius grinned. Strabo put the brush down and picked up a finer one from a pot of l
ampblack-ink, lifting the helmet off again. The figure’s face underneath it was blank, oval, a ridge running down the middle of its front. With surprising speed Strabo painted on a pair of eyes, the shadow of a nose, a stroke of mouth. He held the figurine away, admiring it: then swung the visor down and put the figure on the slab in front of Lucius. “Satisfied?”

  “He’s perfect.”

  “Then that’ll be six minae.”

  “Done.”

  Strabo made the change and counted it out, then watched Lucius put it away rather mechanically. He rooted around under the slab for a moment, produced a piece of plain soft cloth and wrapped it around the little gladiator. “Go on, boy.” He said it gently, not the way people usually said ‘boy’ when they were using it as just another way to say ‘slave’. “Go put him somewhere safe.”

  Lucius nodded. Still in something of a daze, he took the wrapped-up murmillo and headed off to his sleep-space to hide it away. Once there he watched all around to make sure no one saw him: then slipped in, unrolled his blanket, and tucked the murmillo alongside his lamp and his gods. “I’ll see you later…” he whispered, and got out fast.

  Once out in the center aisle again, he paused and wondered what to do. He really wanted to spend the afternoon playing with the murmillo, but to do that in private, he’d have to get more lamp oil, and slaves weren’t allowed any until after dark.

  Lucius wandered out into the sunlight again. People were coming in for the afternoon session, so he dawdled out into the Forum again, sheltering under one of the arcades, and considered buying himself a treat. There were people selling sausages and sweets out here; cheeses and fruits and honey-cakes, all kinds of wonders that he would never taste. The kind of thing that Lady must eat all day…

  But then he caught a glimpse of white columns through the Forum stalls, and felt a brief odd pang of guilt as he remembered Hilarus saying, You should thank Queen Venus…