Curses and Smoke (3 page)

L
ucia appeared late to her father’s
tablinum
. He showed his displeasure by refusing to look up when his man announced her. She could not bring herself to care. It wasn’t that she liked angering her father; she just never seemed to please him. So why bother trying?

It hadn’t always been that way. She remembered spending countless hours on his lap as he told stories about famous gladiators while she combed through the dark hairs on his forearm. He’d changed after her older brother, Lucius Titurius Bassus, had been killed years ago. She wished she could conjure up her brother’s image, but he was nothing more than a vague memory of a stocky young man in gleaming armor, smelling of leather as he kissed her head on his way out of their lives. He died as a soldier somewhere in the hinterlands of Germania.

Once, she’d asked her father why he’d let him go; as paterfamilias, he could have forbidden his eldest and only surviving son from joining the army. But her father had said Bassus convinced him that making connections in the military would be good for the school. Contacts with Roman officers, he was sure, would bring prestige to the family and even possibly new sponsors. Prestige and money — Father’s endless obsessions.

She stood, hands clasped, and waited. Her father’s small study always smelled of lampblack and metal, as if the coins exchanged in that room left an odor behind. Had it smelled differently when her mother had been alive? Would her perfume have lingered in this room?

Gods, she missed her. It was hard to believe that it had only been three years since she had died of a broken heart after she lost their last baby in childbirth. Her once beautiful mother had given birth eight times, and Lucia was the sole survivor. She knew this was her father’s greatest disappointment: It should have been her brother who lived, not her.

Finally, he raised his head, leaned back, and inspected her. “It would not kill you to put some effort into your appearance,” he said.

“Yes, Father.” She was wearing her dingy gray
tunica
, and, to her nurse’s horror, she hadn’t allowed her to rebraid and repin her hair.

He sighed. “You should thank the gods that you take after your mother and not me,” he said. “You should not dishonor them by ignoring the gift of your beauty. Soon you will be a married woman, and you will need to be presentable to your husband and his people at all times.”

His people? You mean the six grandchildren he already has?

Lucia kept her eyes on the desk between them. Even though her father had put the wood stylus down firmly, she noticed it suddenly made several revolutions toward his wine goblet. What had caused that? There was no wind in the room. Was this yet another type of tremor, invisible to them somehow, but strong enough to make small objects move as if of their own accord?

“Did you hear me?” His stern voice broke through her thoughts.

“Yes. I mean, no, Father.”

“I
said
that your betrothed is anxious to proceed with the wedding, but because of the tremors, he insists the ceremony take place in Rome. We will have to leave before the Meditrinalia to prepare. That’s in just three weeks.”

Her mouth dried up like that disappearing spring in the woods. Miss the wine-tasting festival in Pompeii? How could they? It also meant missing the Fontinalia, the day garlands were placed on all the fountains and wellsprings in the city. These were her favorite festivals. She didn’t want to celebrate them in big, dirty, miserable Rome!

“Father,
please
don’t make me marry him,” she begged. “I don’t want to move to Rome! I love Pompeii. This is my home. This is where my friends live, where
Mater
is buried —”

He brushed his palm over his face as if he were weary. “It’s not as if you are going to Britannia, child! I will come and visit you often. Especially once the colossal amphitheater opens.”

She willed herself not to cry, her throat growing tight with the effort.

“You will see, daughter,” he said kindly. “Once you have a child, it will all be worth it.”

“Unless I am cursed like Mother,” she mumbled.

“What did you say?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing, Father.”

“Good. Then, you are dismissed —”

“Wait, there is something I wanted to ask,” she said. The sight of Tag’s back right after he’d been whipped had haunted her for some days now. She took a deep breath, hoping her practiced speech would come out effortlessly. “I am concerned about the rough treatment of some of the slaves in the household. And I thought —”

He began to laugh. She snapped her mouth shut as heat spread up her neck.

“Are you
practicing
running a household on
me
?” he asked. “Now?”

She swallowed. “No, I … I just thought —” she began.

He put a hand up to stop her. “I
appreciate
you trying to help with the household, daughter, but you must understand that for most slaves, physical punishment is the only language they understand. Also, you must remember that the paterfamilias makes the decision about how property is managed, as he makes the decisions in all matters. When you move into Vitulus’s household, you will see that
Vitulus
ultimately decides how to manage his household slaves, not a softhearted girl like you. Understand?”

Lucia looked down. She wanted to remind him that Mother had often discussed those matters with him. Had he forgotten? Or perhaps it had made him angry, and he didn’t want her following her mother’s example. Either way, she had not expected her opinion to be so thoroughly disregarded. She wanted to argue, but no words came.

“Now, is there anything else, daughter?”

“No. I mean, yes.” She cleared her throat. “May I borrow one of your scrolls — the third book of Pliny’s
Histories
?”

He blew air out of his cheeks. “Why? I have already told you, part of your problem is that you read too much. I am convinced that it has corrupted your female mind.”

“I wish only to read what the admiral says about prodigies of the earth in Campania,” she explained. “I have noticed some strange activity around Vesuvius, and —”

He put up a hand irritably. “Fine. I should warn you, though, that your future husband is of stern Roman stock and does not hold with women reading and studying. This may be your last chance to read the old boy’s works.”

Gods, that can’t be true, can it?
Well, even if it were, she would find some way to continue studying, no matter what the old man said. When she found the scroll she was seeking, Lucia pulled it out by its tag and shoved it under her arm. “Thank you, Father.”

He grunted without looking up.

*  *  *

Later that day, Lucia sat on her haunches, pulling weeds in the garden. She would much prefer to be out in the woods with Minos, but she’d missed her chance: Metrodona was awake and watching her from the stone bench.

With a sigh, she broke off a sprig of rosemary and sniffed, relishing the sharp tang of it. Why were the gods ignoring her pleas for help in getting out of the marriage? she wondered. Had she not served them well enough?

A thought stopped her hand as she moved to prune a potted quince tree. Maybe the gods
were
angry with her. Maybe they wanted her to pay them more attention. Well, she could do that.

Brushing her hands off and scooping up a quince and another sprig of rosemary, Lucia marched toward the kitchen hearth and the lararium, the household shrine. Garlands of pine, rosemary, and thyme hung over the mini-pediment within the small arched niche built into the stucco wall. A painted green snake — bringer of peace and prosperity — coiled underneath the shelf of offerings.

Two bronze statuettes of the dancing
lares
, the household gods, grinned up at her. Behind them on the wall was the painted image of the
genius
of the family — the essential spirit of the household — showing her father’s ancestor in a toga, his head covered in the act of worship. Perhaps if she could reach the
genius
, she might get more help from the rest of the gods who were painted around the shrine. The stern face of the patriarch, however, did not look accommodating. She could almost hear the admonition —
Accept your fate. We know what is good for you
.

She turned her focus instead on the painted gods — Apollo, Diana, Minerva, Fortuna, and even Hercules, the patron god of gladiators. For the first time, she realized Venus was not represented among them. Was that the problem? Was Venus punishing her for this oversight by forcing her to marry an old and bitter man? She quickly scrounged up foods she hoped the goddess would appreciate: tiny blushing apples, dried pomegranate seeds, and bright wild berries — all shades of red, the goddess’s favorite color.

After placing the new offerings on the shrine, Lucia bowed her head, only to realize she did not know what to ask of Venus. She wasn’t looking for love. Perhaps that was another reason the goddess was angry.

Venus was forced to marry the vile, misshapen Vulcan. She of all the gods would want to help Lucia avoid a similar fate, wouldn’t she? So Lucia asked for guidance in finding a plan to evade the marriage altogether. To sweeten the offering, she promised the goddess yearly sacrifices of the purest white lambs if only she did not have to marry Vitulus.

After a few minutes, she sensed someone watching her, so she lifted her head and opened her eyes.

“Tages,” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

A flush crawled up Tag’s neck, and he looked away. “I … I was going to make my own offering, but I did not want to interrupt you.”

She tilted her head at him. “The lashes on your back … they are not causing you fevers, are they?”

He shook his head, the corner of one side of his mouth tweaking up. Was that how he smiled now? Barely a movement? Her memory flashed back to the long-ago day when he had found a strange sanctuary in the woods, how his childish face had beamed with pride when he’d brought her to it.

“…
Domina?
”

“I am sorry. What?”

“I asked if you were praying for something health-related, in — in case I could help you in some way.”

“But don’t you have your own shrine in the healing rooms?”

He held out a small terra-cotta foot. “Your father’s stallion stepped on the stable boy’s foot and crushed the bones. I have done what I can, but I thought an appeal to the household gods might help as well.”

“Oh, yes. Good.” She stepped aside to give him room.

He placed the clay foot on the shrine and murmured prayers. They stood side by side.

“So how fare things for you?” he eventually asked in a quiet tone.

“Fine,” she whispered back, surprised at the bubble of warmth that grew in her chest at speaking with him again. “How has it been for you back in the House of Titurius?”

Something flashed across his face, but just as quickly disappeared. “It goes well, thank you,” he said.

In the silence that followed, her skin tingled at his nearness. Earlier, she’d had dozens of questions she wanted to ask him about Rome, but suddenly she couldn’t remember a single one.

“Well, I must go,” Tag said after a time. He didn’t move, though, and quickly added, “But … you never said if you needed me to appeal to the god of healing for you.”

“Oh, no … unless the god of healing can help me find a way of getting out of my impending marriage.”

“Unfortunately, no. But perhaps I can ask the old gods of the city — my Etruscan gods — to help you, if you would like.”

“I would like that very much,” Lucia said, surprised and touched. “And I presume they will listen to you since your name means
prophet
in your language, right?” she added, smiling up at him.

He smiled back. “You remembered.”

“How could I forget? You reminded me every chance you got!”

Tag’s face flushed slightly again and she couldn’t tell whether it was from embarrassment or pleasure. “Have you been able to get out to our wooded cave at all?” she asked.

“Not as much as I would like.” He cleared his throat. “When do you usually make it out there?”

“After the midday meal when Metrodona naps. But sometimes later. It all depends on when I can sneak away.”

He nodded, looking at the fire. Should she have been more specific? She was about to ask him when he went, but the cook pushed her way between them on the way to the hearth.

“ ’Scuse me, ’scuse me,
Domina
,” she said, carrying a heavy cauldron. “I need to get in here to begin the stew.”

Tag gave Lucia a quick smile, murmured, “
Domina
,” and disappeared around the corner before she could say another word.

L
ucius Titurius was yelling for Pontius in the training yard as Tag checked the splint on a fighter’s arm. He tensed at the sound of the master’s voice and peered into the sand pit.

A small hand grabbed his — Castor. “What’s happening?” the little boy whispered.

“Don’t know. Shhhhhhh.”

Pontius turned from supervising the gladiators as they lifted and threw immense logs over a wooden target. He marched toward Titurius. Studying the person standing beside the master, Tag noticed the rich cut of the man’s clothes and the golden rings on both hands. A young nobleman, Tag figured, here to rent a few fighters for entertainment at a banquet.

Titurius talked briefly with his head trainer, bowed obsequiously to his guest, and left them standing together. The young man did not return Titurius’s farewell. Tag suppressed a smirk at the insult to his master.

“Tag, come here,” Pontius yelled, and he jumped in surprise.

“Go back to the medical room,” Tag instructed Castor as he headed toward the overseer.

“This is Quintus Rutilius,” Pontius announced as Tag approached. “He is joining the
ludus
for a couple of months of training.
Dominus
wants him to get a medical examination and have him prepared to join us out here tomorrow morning.”

The man’s thick, wide citizen ring featured a crest that marked him as a patrician of the highest order. Tag had heard of rich patricians and free citizens joining a school for gladiatorial training and even fighting in the arena, but he’d never actually
seen
it happen. Not at their school, anyway. Tag couldn’t train to fight for his freedom, yet this man could saunter in and playact at fighting just to have stories to share with his drinking buddies later. The very idea of a man willingly giving up his freedom for sport sickened him. Yet Tag forced his face to bear the impassive expression of the compliant slave.

Well, the young patrician likely wouldn’t last long. “Follow me, please,” Tag said to him. But Quintus did not move. “Follow me to the medical room,” Tag repeated, a little louder.

The man turned his attention to him, his eyes widening. “Oh, excuse me. Were you talking to me, slave? Address me as
Dominus
in the future.”

Red heat spread through Tag’s chest, and he fought the desire to twist the young man’s curled head into the sand like Archimedes’s screw. His attitude must have aggravated Pontius too, because the giant Samnite stepped up inches from Quintus’s face and stabbed a fat finger into his chest.

“Listen here, ye privileged pansy,” he hissed. “Nobody out here calls ye
Dominus
, got it? That’s what ye call
me
. Now, I don’t know why ye came here or what game yer playin’, but there are no guarantees that you’ll make it out alive. Yer under my control now, and if ye make me mad, it may slip my mind to ask my men to go easy on yer pampered backside. Are we clear?”

Quintus hesitated just long enough to skirt the edge of politeness. “Yes …
Dominus
,” he said.

“Tag, take this piece of trash outta my sight,” Pontius ordered him, turning back to the sand.

“Follow me,” Tag said again as he walked away, not bothering to look back. Inside the medical room, Castor ran under the table for an empty record tablet when Tag nodded at him.

“I must ask you to strip,” Tag said to the young nobleman.

“But we’ve only just met,” Quintus replied, quirking one eyebrow and crossing his arms.

“For the medical examination,” Tag said coolly, taking the wax tablet and stylus from Castor.

The patrician untied his filigreed, embroidered belt and began shrugging out of his tunic. Tag noticed how carefully he protected his oiled curls as he pulled the tunic over his head. Gods, the other gladiators were going to eat him alive.

“Castor, go help my father, please.”

Clearly intimidated by the rich man, the boy nodded and careened out of the room.

“Wait! Don’t run —” Tag began, but stopped at the sound of cascading, clanging metal. He winced.

An equipment slave cursed loudly in a mix of guttural Latin and Greek over what Tag guessed was a spilled basket of shields. “Watch where you’re going, you stupid little sot,” the man roared after Castor.

Tag shook his head, then tossed Quintus a
subligaculum
— a canvas loincloth — and a wide leather belt. Quintus let them fall at his feet.

“You cannot be serious,” he said. “I will not wear another man’s sweat-stained undergarments!”

“Then you can train naked,” Tag said nonchalantly. “Some of the Celt warriors insist on doing so when they first come. It usually doesn’t go well for them. I’ve learned there are some surgeries I really don’t like to perform.”

Quintus blanched, then stepped into the
subligaculum
. Tag suppressed a smirk. He could feel the patrician examining him from head to toe as he opened the wax tablet.

“So,” the man said. “You are a medical slave. Interesting. By the young-Apollo looks of you, I would have had you pegged as the lanista’s
personal
slave….”

Tag narrowed his eyes. “I am a trained healer. That is my sole purpose.”

“What a waste.”

Tag ignored his baiting and began. “All new fighters to the
ludus
— free or slave — must answer the following medical questions.” He sped through them as quickly as possible in order to get the man out of his room.

Have you ever had a broken bone? If so, where?

A cough that caused labored breathing?

Have you had the falling-down sickness?

Quintus answered all his questions with an attitude of superior boredom. The scabs on Tag’s lashes itched with irritation, and he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension during the interview.

“Let me smell your breath,” Tag said. The man’s breath had a slight metallic undertone, indicating that the patrician’s blood was too hot — a sure marker that his humors were out of balance. Excess yellow bile likely accounted for his odiousness. Tag carved his observations into the wax with the stylus.

“Now let me look at your nails.” He was looking for yellowing or ridges, but Quintus’s nails were buffed and manicured beyond anything he’d ever seen. Tag swallowed his revulsion, trying to imagine having so much free time — not to mention money — that he could own another human whose sole purpose was to massage and buff his fingertips.

“Why are you here at this
ludus
?” he asked, pretending it was one of the questions on the list.

“To irritate my father, mostly,” Quintus said, shrugging. “I am, of course, the fifth son, determinedly
not
following in the footsteps of my overachieving brothers. My father bleats that he’s tired of my gambling, drinking, and whoring. So he gave me a choice — serve as a butt wiper to his friends’ officers at a military outpost in Britannia, or come here to dry out and toughen up for a few months.”

“So you came here? Kissing some officer’s backside would’ve been a lot easier.”

Quintus smirked. “I am not going out on any military post unless
I
am the officer in charge. My father should have known this. In truth, I believe he never thought I’d choose this hellhole. Which is, of course, why I did. I live to enrage him.”

“Well, you have a talent for enraging others too. You should watch yourself around the gladiators,” Tag warned. “Have you been told which barracks you will be sleeping in?”

Quintus laughed. “Barracks? No. I’m staying in the big house with your master.”

“But haven’t you signed your freedom over to the school?” Doing so meant the patrician would have to live like the rest of the fighting slaves.

Quintus scoffed. “My father has made special arrangements with your master to accommodate me. Besides, your master wouldn’t dare insult a patrician like me by making me sleep with you filthy brutes.”

Tag shook his head. His throat would be cut by sunset.

The young man seemed to read his expression. “Oh, I’m not worried. In addition to the significant amount of money my father has given your owner to cover this little adventure, I’ve managed to slip him even more gold to make sure I come out of this with nary a scratch. I’m sure the overseer slave —”

“Pontius is not a slave — he’s a freedman.”

“I’m sure the former slave will receive his instructions about this. I think your master is hoping to get a wealthy sponsor out of this little arrangement. Which he just might, if I come out of this as handsomely noble as I went in.” He touched his hair again.

Tag stared at him in disbelief.

Quintus picked up a small square of metal and gazed at his reflection. “Speaking of pretty faces, I understand the lanista’s daughter is quite a little beauty. I imagine every gladiator here fancies himself half in love with her.”

“She is betrothed,” Tag pointed out.

Quintus shrugged. “Yes, but she isn’t married
yet
.” He smiled wickedly. “Oh, wouldn’t my father love that.”

“Love what?”

“If I suddenly claimed that I’d fallen for the daughter of a ‘Butcher of Men.’ The scandal would serve him right.”

“I do not recommend such a game,” Tag said. “It is well known that if any gladiator so much as looks at the girl, he will be whipped to within an inch of his life.”

“Ah, but I’m not a gladiator, am I?” Quintus said, walking around the small room, sniffing at the small clay bowls full of dried healing herbs.

Tag clenched his teeth. “I believe we are done here.”

“Excellent. Can I go get my sword now?”

“You do not get a sword. We train with wooden weapons. You know this. Everyone knows this.”

“But I want a real sword! What’s the fun of this if I don’t get to play with a real sword?”

“Go out to Pontius and tell him you’re ready for your ‘real sword.’ He’ll take care of you.”

“Splendid!” Quintus sauntered out of the room, giving Tag a smile of amused condescension.

Again, Tag had to take multiple breaths to beat back the urge to twist Quintus into sausage links. How dare he talk about Lucia like that! Were people truly just playthings to the very rich?

With an irritated sigh, he began the report for Pontius and the master on the new “trainee.”