Curses and Smoke (9 page)

L
ucia looked out the opening of her wooded cave. Was Tag coming? He’d hinted he was going to get out there that afternoon.

But what if he couldn’t get away? Waiting inside the enclosure felt too constricting. She needed to be
doing
something, whether he came or not. So she reached under the old blanket for her leather bag, pulled out a wax tablet, and crawled outside. At least she could review her notes and maybe jot down some other observations while she waited.

The cracks in the earth, the disappearing spring, the tremors slight enough to vibrate only spiderwebs — there had to be a pattern. It had to
mean
something. But what? Were the phenomena localized to Pompeii? Or were strange things happening over all of the Bay of Neapolis? What about the sea — had fishermen reported any strange events? What about all those eels dying in their sea pools in Herculaneum that Quintus had mentioned?

An image of Cornelia’s unborn babe moving under the surface of her skin came into Lucia’s mind. Her friend had complained that sometimes the baby’s movements were so frequent or intense, they made her jump in pain or woke her from a sound sleep.

What if … what if something similar was happening in Pompeii? What if the gods were preparing to push new life into the world like Cornelia’s babe, and these rumblings and tumblings were part of it? But what would the earth be giving “birth” to? Had anyone ever witnessed such a thing? Who could say how mountain ranges or great rivers like the Sarnus were born? Perhaps a new mountain range was readying to burst through the earth, connecting Mount Vesuvius to the Apennines. Or small springs were drying up in one place, gathering strength to burst forth into another river across the valley.

The thought of Cornelia and the earth’s stirrings reminded her of the danger of childbirth in general. She said a silent prayer to Juno, Vesta, and Diana on Cornelia’s behalf.
May you watch over her and her baby; may they both survive
.

Gods, what she would give to speak with Pliny about her observations and theories. It would be such a shame to not meet the great man at least once before she was exiled to Rome. And despite what Cornelia thought, once he realized just how well-read Lucia was in his own works, she knew he wouldn’t mock her. He might even be impressed. She would have to ask Cornelia again about her progress in setting something up.

Tag’s shadow fell over her. She jumped up in surprise.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I made as much noise as Hannibal’s trumpeting elephants, but I guess you were lost in your writings.”

“I am developing a theory,” she said, snapping the wax tablet closed.

He blinked and tilted his head slightly.

“Never mind,” she said. “I wanted to show you something.” She hadn’t intended to go into the woods with him again, but suddenly she could not look him in the eye, and walking at least gave them something to do. If she were honest with herself, she’d admit she invited him out there just for the opportunity to kiss him again. But what if he didn’t want to kiss her? Would he feel forced to obey her if she tried? Gods, the first time she’d kissed him had been a thoughtless impulse. Why couldn’t the second time be as easy?

“Where are we going, Lucia?” he asked as they started walking.

“You’ll see. I hear you are training with Quintus now. Is that true?”

“Yes. Mostly my job is to keep him from getting killed,” Tag said with disdain.

“Why do you dislike him so much?” she asked.

“You mean besides the obvious? Besides the fact that he is a self-important, narcissistic prig who casually gives up his freedom to play at sword fighting, when I would give my life to be free of slavery and of your father?”

She stopped. “You hate my father that much?”

He ran a hand through his curls. “Do you want me to answer that honestly?”

“But all your needs are met, aren’t they? You’re educated, clothed, you don’t suffer from hunger, you have a roof over your head, the respect of the other slaves —”

His eyes grew wide. “Are you suggesting that I should be
happy
to be a slave? That I should count my blessings rather than fight for the freedom that was stolen dishonorably from my family? Just because I am fed and watered and sometimes whipped like a dog — like Minos?”

She looked away. “No, that is not what I meant. I’m sorry, I just …” Gods, why did she keep saying the wrong thing?

“Why are we here, Lucia?” He sounded exasperated.

Heat flooded her cheeks. “I … uh, well, found something that I thought you would like.” She turned and walked on, hoping he would follow.

“Oh, look. There it is,” she cried with relief after an excruciatingly long and silent walk. The remainder of a tiny circular temple — three columns dusted with green mold and crumbling with decay — surrounded a vine-covered altar in a clearing before them. High in the branches of a huge cypress tree hung corroded bronze bells that tinkled with the breeze.

“You found this place years ago when we were playing in the woods,” Lucia said, recalling his grin of satisfaction when he’d shown it to her. “It has an old well too,” she added, pointing to a circular brick structure in the ground in front of the altar. “Do you remember it?”

Tag looked around. “Yes. Vaguely.” He threw a large rock in the empty well. They heard a muffled thud but no splash. “Must have dried up long ago.”

She pushed a piece of hair off her forehead. “It reminded me of the altar to Mephistis you showed me….”

He nodded in agreement.

“Perhaps it was abandoned after the big earthquake, which would explain why it’s in such terrible condition.”

“Makes sense,” Tag said.

Gods, why was she so nervous? He was a
slave
!
“I will … I’ll leave her an offering,” she said. “Just in case.” She headed for a patch of marigolds and picked an armful. She placed some on the altar and began dropping the rest one by one into the well, watching as they tumbled head over stem into the blackness.

“Don’t throw all of them in. I should take some back,” Tag said, sitting with his back against a tree. “I can make a paste for bruises from them.”

Lucia nodded and gathered more flowers. She laid them at his feet and he began separating the petals. A small flash in the sunlight caught her eye. She walked over to the well and brushed aside a pile of ivy and overgrowth. Looking up to see if Tag was watching — he wasn’t — she plucked at the metal object. It was embedded in the dirt, so she dug her fingernails in to pull it out.

It was a corroded piece of lead with a rusty nail hanging from it. “Huh.” She brought it over to him. “Look at what I found.”

Tag looked up at the thing she held in her hands. His eyes widened and he scrambled to his feet. “Where did you get that?”

She pointed. “It was half-buried by the well. Why, what is it?”

He was looking at the object in a funny way.

“Tag, do you know what this is?”

“You shouldn’t touch that.”

“Why?”

“It’s a curse tablet.”

She looked down at it. “How do you know?” She brushed the dirt away and turned it over. If she held it in the light a certain way, she could see letters scratched onto the surface. Curious, she tried to read them. A lot of the writing was rubbed away, but she caught the sense of it. Haltingly, she read aloud what she could decipher:

She looked up. “By the gods, somebody was
very
angry at this person, wasn’t he?”

Color had drained from Tag’s face. “Was there a nail attached?” he asked.

She nodded but then realized it was gone — it must have fallen out.

“Put that away where you found it,” Tag said. “Curse tablets are dangerous, destructive magic.”

“I’m sure the person who made this is long gone — and maybe his victim too. Doesn’t that mean the curse has lost its power?” she asked, quickly returning the tablet, throwing dirt over it, and backing away.

“I hope so,” Tag said, still agitated. He turned toward her. “Why did you ask me out here, Lucia?”

What could she say? She rubbed the dirt off her hands, unable to look at him. It wasn’t as if she could just say that she wanted to see him alone because she couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him, could she? How could she admit that she wanted to know if she would always respond like that to a kiss, or whether it was just
him
that caused her to feel that way? Secretly, she’d hoped he would sweep her up in his arms and kiss her the moment he saw her in private. But instead, stupidly, she’d sent them on a hike.

When she didn’t answer, he sighed and said, “Well, I should probably be heading back.”

She didn’t want him to leave yet. “Tag, you know I’ve never seen you as a slave, yes?” she asked, leaning forward.

He blinked. “That is … nice. But I am one.”

She flushed. “No, that’s not what I’m trying to say.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting. She snatched at leaves from a nearby bush in irritation — at herself, at him. “I am not free either. Like you, I don’t have any say in what happens in my life —”

He laughed. “Are you comparing your situation to
slavery
? Your limitations are
nothing
like being a slave.”

“But they are close. I am being purchased, essentially, simply because some rich old man has decided he’s bored. I have no say in this
transaction
with Vitulus. No say about who will ‘own’ me, where I will live, whether I want children — anything, really. I’m going to be used like a shiny new amphora and then tossed away.”

He rubbed his face in irritation. “Fine. You are not free. But you are not anything like a slave.”

“Well, no matter what I say or do, I can’t get out of marrying Vitulus, so I might as well be one,” she said.

He shook his head. “Poor little rich girl,” he mumbled.

Her throat constricted and her eyes stung hot. This was
not
how she’d wanted this to go. “I am
not
a poor little rich girl,” she shot back, frustration turning into anger. “I am being sold and used, and I don’t like it.”

“But you are still free,” he insisted. She opened her mouth to argue, but he put his hands up. “Look, I don’t have the
luxury
of having a philosophical discussion about the nature of freedom. As a slave, it means only one thing to me — no longer being owned by another human being.” He turned away. “And now I need to get back.”

“Wait.” She swiped at her eyes.

He sighed. “Lucia. Did you really bring me out here so that you could lecture me on how you marrying a rich man is like me being a slave?”

“No. I brought you out here because … because I wanted to kiss you again,” she mumbled, looking at her feet.

He took in a breath. When she peeked up at him, she saw that his eyes were wide and his mouth was open in surprise. Focusing on his lips made her blush, so she looked down again.

She felt him move in closer. Her breath hitched. A sudden thought made her blood run cold. Maybe he hadn’t enjoyed kissing her as much as she’d enjoyed kissing him. Maybe there was a slave girl he loved, and he was only obeying his
domina
, like all slaves must.

She snuck another look at him. He didn’t look disgusted or forced. He looked …
hungry
.

Tag put his hand to her cheek, his thumb lightly brushing across her bottom lip. She could not get enough air into her lungs. He made a small strangled sound and leaned down to put his mouth on hers.

Q
uintus came to the medical room on his way to the training yard and paused in the doorway. “Are you ready?” he asked Tag.

“Yes, let me just put these herbs away,” he said. When the jars were secured, he untied his belt, pulled his tunic over his head, and reached for the wide gladiator belt he’d left on a hook.

“You know, you look more suited to posing for statue carvers than being a healer or a fighter,” the patrician said. “Except for those lashes on your back. What a shame to mark a body such as yours.”

Tag ignored him. Quintus always seemed to be goading him in some way, almost as if he was seeing how far he could push him to react so that he could have Tag punished for being disrespectful. Well, he would not fall for any of it. “Let’s go,” he said after buckling the belt.

“Wait,” Quintus said, stepping into the room. He pulled something from behind his back. “I have something for you.” He held a leather-bound box out to Tag.

Tag blinked. “I don’t understand.”

Quintus flushed. “It’s a gift. For what you did the other day. You know, for saving me from Hamilcar.”

Tag bit back the response that came to his lips — that he hadn’t done it to save
him
, but to avoid getting whipped again. Not to mention to avoid having to treat Hamilcar and multiple gladiators who would’ve been lashed for hurting the master’s special guest. “A gift is not necessary,
Dominus
,” he said.

Quintus shoved the box toward him. “Open it.”

Tag took it from him and rubbed his hands over the smooth leather. He’d never owned anything so fine. Creaking the box open, he gasped at what was inside: an array of the finest surgical equipment he’d ever seen. Light from the oil lamp gleamed on bronze scalpels, forceps, bone levers, scissors, probes, needles, clamps, and bone cutters. There were even two small cups for collecting blood during bloodlettings. He touched a particularly fine scalpel. “I cannot accept this,” he whispered.

Quintus was grinning like Castor coming upon the small monkey in the marketplace. “Of course you can. I thought this might please you. And it pleases me that you are pleased. But you must know that I also offer this gift not just because you saved me,” he continued, “but because I’m determined to prove to you that I am actually not the odious person you seem to think I am.”

Tag ran his fingers alongside the shining metal instruments, barely hearing him. He suddenly wished someone was injured or hurt so that he could test these fine instruments on real flesh.

Someone shouted their names from outside, and Tag jumped.

“We have to get out there,” Quintus said.

“Thank you for such a fine and generous gift,
Dominus
,” Tag said, closing the box and placing it on top of his warped wooden one. He walked out of the room toward the training area. It took him a moment to realize Quintus had not followed him. He looked back and saw the patrician staring at the floor while rubbing the back of his neck.
What a strange little man
.

Titus, the second overseer, glared at them when Quintus caught up. It was clear he hated working with the beginners. “Nice of you to join us, ladies.” Turning to the rest of the men in his group, he roared, “Before we begin, let us repeat the oath all gladiators must take.”

“
We kill with honor; we die with dignity
,” Tag and the men grumbled. Dying with dignity, Tag knew, was even more important than killing with honor. A gladiator who begged to be spared shamed his school.

Titus pointed to a basket of wooden swords. “Grab your
rudis
and face your
palus
,” he barked, gesturing to the man-sized wooden stakes upon which they would practice their sword strokes. “Let’s start with an easy warm-up. Undercuts and overcuts, high and low, two hundred fifty times with each hand. Start with the right. Opposite leg out. Remember to switch your front leg when you change hands.”

Tag was always surprised at how heavy the
rudis
was. The training swords were weighted with a strip of metal on the inside, which helped fighters gain strength quickly.

Quintus, as expected, took the heavily nicked pole next to Tag. “I bet I’ll finish before you,” he said.

I bet you won’t
.

“Let’s go,” Titus yelled, looking at him and Quintus. “Undercuts and overcuts, high and low. I want to see your form.”

Tag attacked his
palus
with a fury. The gods had seen fit to give him this chance to prove himself, and he would take it for all he was worth. He quickly found his rhythm, ignoring the pain of the scabbed-over lashes that stretched and tore as he swung. It had been weeks since he’d trained in Rome, and it felt like he was starting over now, but he knew his body would adjust quickly.

The
thump-thump
of wood on wood echoed in the training yard. He paused to switch the
rudis
to his left hand, surreptitiously trying to catch his breath.

“No breaks!” roared Titus. “Go!” Then to Quintus, “Speed it up, princess. Everyone else has already switched hands.”

As Tag swung, he couldn’t help but glance over at the patrician, whose face was red with exertion. Sweat poured off the still-oiled curls pasted to his forehead. Tag almost felt sorry for him. He really had no business here.

When everyone had finished with the
palus
, the overseer sent them to the end of the yard, where thick, sanded logs waited for them. Tag groaned silently as Titus explained that they had to pick up a log and run with it across the sandpit and back.

As Titus instructed them on squatting correctly (“Use your hips and thighs, not your backs. That’s where your strength is.”), Tag glanced at Quintus, who had his face turned upward. He followed his gaze and caught his breath. Lucia stood on the viewing balcony, leaning on the wooden barrier that extended over the training yard. In the afternoon light with her hair shining, she looked like a nymph rising from the sea.

He must have made a sound, because Quintus turned to him with a curious expression. “I believe that the pretty lady is looking for someone,” Quintus said, watching Tag very carefully. “And it could only be me.”

They both looked up again, but she was gone. Tag forced himself to shrug as if he didn’t care.