Curses and Smoke (17 page)

“Again,” the German said.

Three more times they sparred, and three more times Tag found himself flat on the sand. “Ready to give up, little healer boy?” Sigdag taunted.

“Never.”

“Good.”

On the sixth round, Tag aimed for the midsection after feinting high, then slammed his curved sword into the German’s wrist. The man grunted and released his spear. Then Tag attacked hard, slicing up backhanded from the wrist for the neck — but Sigdag blocked him with such force, he went flying. Yet he didn’t fall. He scrabbled for balance, found it, and crouched low, noticing that Sigdag had his spear again.

He must have irritated the German, because the champion came at him with a force he’d clearly been holding back.
Block. Block. Block
. That was all he could do. Sigdag’s overhead attack was so forceful, Tag knew his shield wouldn’t take the weight, so he bent with it, balling himself into the sand and rolling over his shoulder to get away. The German hadn’t expected the loss of resistance and staggered forward. In the same moment, Tag sprang up and slammed his wooden sword into the back of the German’s knees. At least, he intended it to be a slam — it was more of a chip. But it was enough to send Sigdag down into the dirt.

Now behind him, Tag drew back, readying for a winning blow. But somehow, the German whipped around and used his shield to slam him in the stomach, throwing Tag into the air over him. This time he did not see sky but got a mouthful of sand instead. His forehead clanged against the metal of his helmet, and he felt blood trickle into his left eye. The German pressed his dagger into the back of his neck, and Tag put his hand up in defeat.

Gradually, awareness of sound came back to him, and he heard the men chanting, “Mercy, mercy, mercy,” and laughing.

Sigdag removed the dagger and grunted at him. Tag turned over. He spit out sand and sat up. The German held out his hand and Tag took it. Sigdag lifted him up with little effort and leaned toward his ear. “Finally, you came in low, boy.”

Tag looked up at him, confused.

“Many make this mistake. They come at me high because I am big. But that means they are not paying attention to what I am
doing
. If your opponent goes high — which I tend to do — you must aim low. Watch your enemy more carefully.”

“I … I wasn’t even aware of whether you were going high or low. I was too scared,” Tag admitted.

The German laughed and pointed to his head. “That is part of the game too. But you must pay attention — where is your opponent lunging? Once you understand his preference, you can attack the weak spot.”

As Pontius approached, Sigdag called, “I tell you I see something in him.”

“Maybe so,” Pontius said. “But obviously, he needs a lot more training. And bulk.”

Tag should have been insulted, but he wasn’t. It had been ugly and possibly embarrassing, but he had gotten a couple of jabs in. That was more than he thought he could have managed.

Even so, the relief and excitement of holding his own with the German didn’t last long. With one long release of breath, the bitter reality of his situation flooded back in. He was going to lose Lucia because he couldn’t bring himself to condemn his father to a violent death. And even if he got the training he needed, even if he managed to find a way to convince the master to let him fight in the arena, even if he survived long enough to be freed, he would still never see Lucia again.

“You have the speed, boy,” Sigdag said, using his massive bear paw to give Tag a small shove. “You could turn into something.”

To no end
, he thought, and walked away.

T
he air was thick with the musk of frightened animals as they entered the colonnaded courtyard of the Temple of Venus Pompeia. Portable wooden pens overflowed with bleating lambs, snuffling pigs, and pecking chickens. Vendors shouted promises that their animals were “perfect, unblemished, and fit for the gods.” Lucia had never seen so many creatures at the temple on a non-festival day. She thought the strange rumblings of the earth must be driving those who remained in Pompeii to increase their attempts to appease the gods.

As they neared the temple itself, Lucia tried to remember a time when it wasn’t under some sort of construction or renovation. Empty scaffolding, broken ladders, and unhung friezes leaned against the temple’s outer walls. Perhaps the goddess was angry at the slow pace of her temple’s reconstruction.

On the walk through town, Lucia’s father had not answered her questions about the reasons for this trip to the temple. He only smiled at her and exchanged a look with Quintus. Quintus had insisted a slave hold an
umbraculum
over her to protect her from the sun. She couldn’t imagine why it mattered to him, but she went along without complaint. Once inside the courtyard, her father joined the long line of supplicants waiting to purchase sacrificial animals.

“Come,” Quintus said to her. “Let us walk among the goddess’s gardens while we wait for your father.”

He took her elbow, and Lucia felt a deepening sense of dread. Something was going on. She couldn’t remember when, if ever, her father had made a special sacrifice to Venus Pompeiana. And why were they doing it now instead of planning their trip to Rome? Had he begun to worry about the signs from the earth too? Yet he hadn’t seemed concerned — he’d been relaxed and smiling on the walk over.

Lucia and Quintus threaded their way around the side of the courtyard toward the goddess’s garden. Sacred myrtle bushes abounded. Tag had told her that crushed myrtle berries were excellent for use as a wash for wounds. She swallowed a sigh. Everything made her think of Tag. She was so frustrated about not being able to see him that she’d left a secret message on his shrine to Asclepius, telling him they needed to meet that very night to make their final plans.

Lucia noticed that only a handful of other worshippers shared the garden with them, giving them plenty of privacy. Her heart beat faster as she realized the implications.

“Let us sit under this arbor,” Quintus said, leading her to a small alcove. He sat. She remained standing. So he took her hand and pulled her toward him on the bench.

“No,” she murmured. “I cannot.”

“You will have to get over this adorable shyness of yours when we are married,” he said.

She froze. “Wha — what?”

He grinned up at her. “Yes, that’s what your father and I have been discussing all morning. I went to Herculaneum to convince my father to allow it. He has agreed, and that is why we are here to sacrifice to the goddess of love and fertility.”

The shock of his words was so great, she almost grew dizzy. “I … I don’t understand.”

“I have convinced your father to break your arrangement with Vitulus and betroth you to me instead.”

“But the wedding is only days away. How did you manage —”

He pulled her down next to him and shifted to face her. He was beaming. “Convincing my father was hardest of all, but he has agreed, mainly because he’d like to see me marry and feared I never would. Your father has sent a messenger to Vitulus this very morning to cancel the betrothal. Aren’t you happy?”

“But … I am the daughter of a lanista,” she said, dumbfounded. “Won’t there be a scandal?” After the disaster with Antyllus, she understood more keenly how nobles viewed her father’s livelihood.

“Yes, well, apparently, your status is less horrifying to my father than my drinking, gambling, and refusal to marry. Besides, I think he recognizes the business potential as Vespasian’s great amphitheater nears completion. And as long as he is not personally associated with the school, he does not care if I invest in it.” He searched her face. “Also, I plan on spending most of the year in Herculaneum, to be sure that you can stay close to your friend, Cornelia.”

Lucia stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Are you not pleased?”

She swallowed and nodded. It didn’t matter what Quintus and her father planned, she reminded herself. She and Tag were running away. In the meantime, she must play the part of the rescued bride and act happy.

The smile she put on seemed so genuine, only Tag and Cornelia could have seen through it.

He clapped, delighted. “See, this will work out perfectly. Your father has agreed to all my demands.”

“Demands?”

“You do not need to worry about those. All you need to know is that everyone is pleased, especially your father, who will get the new infusion of coin for which he has been so desperate.”

Lucia continued smiling, repeating to herself,
It doesn’t matter. None of his plans matter — Tag and I are running away
.

“Your feelings for me are a great balm to my heart,” he continued. “I have no doubt that I will come to love you, especially when you bear me sons —”

She blinked several times. He didn’t love her? Then why was he pushing for the marriage?

He took one of her hands in both of his. “You must agree that this is a much more suitable arrangement than any one your father planned for you or my father planned for me.”

Of course, he was right. Not that it mattered anymore. But she smiled up at him as if it did.

Quintus chuckled and embraced her. “You are a sweet one,” he murmured.

The
umbraculum
-carrying slave interrupted them. “Many pardons,” he said. “But the master’s turn for the sacrifice is near.”

As they passed out of the maze of gardens, Lucia touched the foot of the small statue of Eros marking the exit, asking the son of Venus to protect her and Tag when they ran.

Her father grinned at them when they joined him. “Well? My besotted daughter, are you happy?” he asked.

“I am speechless,” she replied, continuing to smile in what felt to her a grotesque mask of exaggeration.

“She was quite overcome when I announced the arrangement,” Quintus said.

“Well, I do believe the curse is finally lifted,” her father said, beaming.

Curse? What curse?

“The gods are at last smiling down upon us,” he continued. “Now everyone has reason to celebrate. You, my daughter, will be with the man you love, and we will finally have the means to build up the school and earn the respect we deserve.”

Lucia stared at her father. He assumed she “loved” Quintus? Because Quintus told him that was the case? Why had it not occurred to her father to ask
her
how she felt?

She already knew the answer — because anything the rich patrician said was more valuable to him than anything she might say, think, or feel. Sighing, she reminded herself to play along.

Father’s attendants held both a lamb and a rooster. “The lamb is my sacrifice,” Quintus whisper-bragged into her ear. Of course it was. It was more expensive.

The priest, head covered by his toga, said the prayers while slaves deftly handled the lamb on the altar. Within moments, the beast was limp and bled out, the first blood’s catch held aloft in a gleaming bronze bowl. The air was thick with the smell of blood, wool, and the animal’s emptied bowels.

A priest quickly cleaned the altar in preparation for the rooster. A young slave took the bird and laid it on the altar. A second slave stretched its neck over a special board with a curved bronze hand to hold its head in place. The priest’s sacred ax came down on the bird’s neck with a thwack —

At that very moment, the earth rumbled and rolled beneath them.

People screamed. The earth stopped vibrating almost immediately, leaving the young priest holding the sacrificed bird by the feet as blood trickled on his tunic. The small chicken head lay on the altar.

But the bird’s wings continued flapping fiercely and angrily, long after it should have stopped moving. The startled young priest let go of the rooster, which flew up into the air, then landed with a thud near the altar bearing its own mangled half head. It began running straight toward the steps of the goddess’s temple. Everyone gasped.

“It was not a killing blow,” one priest hissed to the other. “The goddess has not accepted the sacrifice.”

Murmurs and cries of fear roiled throughout the courtyard.
The goddess is angry…. She will hurl her temple upon us…. What do we do?
Some people began to run; others called out for family members. Throughout it all, Lucius Titurius stood frozen.

Lucia looked at her father. His face was ashen and his eyes wide. “Father?” she asked, touching his shoulder.

“The curse … Her shade has convinced the goddess to reject my sacrifice,” he mumbled. “She has made the gods truly turn against me.”

What curse is he talking about? And whose shade?
“No, no, Father, it is fine. The priest will make it all right.”

The bird’s flapping caught her attention. It still lived! How was that possible? The strangeness of it chilled her to the bone. Quintus made the sign against evil, and most of the others watching the drama followed suit.

“Father?”

She followed his gaze. Two priests and an elderly priestess talked and gesticulated in a panic while watching the bird flap against the stairs of the temple. Finally, the young priest picked up the bird and handed it to the priestess. She bustled away with the still-struggling body under her arm.

The elder priest called those who remained in the courtyard to him, his arms stretched out wide. The crowd quieted.

“He who provided the sacrifice that has angered the goddess must step forward.”

Her father advanced on the priest. Quintus moved to stand beside Lucia. For a wild moment, she imagined that it was Tag coming to comfort her, and she fought the impulse to curl into him.

“The goddess has spoken!” the priest announced in a deep, sonorous tone. “She has rejected the last sacrifice. Lucius Titurius must spend the night at the temple fasting and purifying himself in appeasement. Before dawn, he will offer another sacrifice to see if the goddess accepts his penance.”

He lowered his arms. The crowd began to disperse, murmuring and whispering to one another about portents, staring at Lucius Titurius with scowls of fear. Despite Lucia’s own alarm and confusion, she wanted to run to her father and protect him from their judgment. He stood, head bowed, listening as the priest lectured him. He looked so small and, suddenly, so
old
.

Quintus pulled her away. “He is with the priests now,” he said. “They will purify him and appease the goddess. There is nothing more we can do.”

“But — I’m frightened —”

“There is no reason to fear,” Quintus interrupted. “The omen affects your father, not us. The lamb was accepted. Our marriage will still go on.”

Lucia groaned silently.
Gods, how has it come to this?
But maybe it
was
a sign. Maybe the gods were removing her father from the house for the night so that they could escape once and for all.