The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) (14 page)

Chapter 21

Valens

Somewhere near the forum, bells rang out to mark the eleventh hour. After his meeting with the general, Valens had sat in this tablinum for over two hours, numb with shock, trying to comprehend all that had happened. At least Acestes had allowed Antonice to stay at home.

Oh, what heartache his sister had caused. He wanted to throttle her, but Valens knew he would never raise a hand to Antonice. He could yell, however, and at the moment it seemed the best place to start.

“Leto,” he called to the housekeeper. “Bring Antonice to me at once.”

Leto returned a moment later. “Apologies, dominus. Your sister is still abed.”

Anger flooded his veins. Valens stood so quickly that his chair toppled backward, clattering as it hit the floor. He kicked it and it skittered toward the wall. His shin throbbed where it had connected with the wood. The pain felt pure, real. The red rage that now consumed him was better than the numbness that had enveloped him during the morning.

Valens did not stop to think on his actions or try to develop a stratagem for dealing with his sister. He stormed to her side of the house, upending tables and scattering urns and pitchers as he went.

I am here.
The debris spoke for him.
I have been here. You cannot ignore the bits of pottery and shards of glass. You cannot ignore me.

Without knocking, Valens pushed open his sister’s door. Curtains pulled against the daylight left the room in shadow. Even in the dimness he saw her. Antonice lay curled up with a blanket pulled to her chin and partly over her head. She looked so like a mouse in its hole that some of Valens’s fury slipped away—although not enough to blunt his temper.

“What have you done?” He yanked the curtains opened and light filled the room.

Antonice sat up. Dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, and her eyes opened wide. She looked much as she had as a young child. Valens nearly sobbed aloud despite his wrath.

“What have you done? Tell me you did not know how Damian found the coin to pay for your jewels.”

Antonice stared at her brother and said nothing. Yet the tears that slipped down her cheeks spoke volumes. She had known and, with that knowledge, had been complicit in the crime.

He wanted to shake her. For her, he would be returning to prove himself in the one place he had sworn never to go again. He swung his arm across her cosmetics table, scattering perfumes and powders. The cloying scent of jasmine and a fine, shimmering dust hung in the air. With a force that rattled his very bones, Valens pushed out of the room and slammed her door.

“She does not leave this villa,” he said to Leto. “Send the steward to hire guards. Do you understand?” He stormed from the house.

Only as he wound his way down the crowded streets of the Aventine did Valens register his housekeeper’s silent response of tears and a nodding head.

He had failed his sister. If Valens had been more attentive to Antonice’s activities when she was younger and their mother alive, this—this goat rope of a problem—might have been avoided. Even years ago, Valens had known he needed to do more, to
be
more. Instead he had done nothing beyond give them coin. His pace slowed as he entered the Capitoline Market. The temples to Hercules Victor and Portunus flanked a ludus.
His
ludus.

As a child Valens had possessed the courage to enter these doors in order to save Antonice. Now he stood at the door to Paullus’s house and lifted his fist to knock, instead resting his knuckles on the wood without making a sound. Why? Did he so loathe the idea of killing, even if that death allowed his sister to live? Or was it that if he reentered the ludus, the Fates might cut the thread tethering him to the earth, and the only way he would leave again was by dying?

Valens knocked. A slave opened the door. A guard stood nearby. “State your business,” the slave said.

“I am here to see the lanista.”

He did not wait to be invited in or be led through the atrium. Valens immediately walked past the stunned guard, knowing the way well enough. He found his former master sitting behind a desk with scrolls and tablets strewn about.

Paullus looked very much as he always had. In the familiarity of the situation, some of the tension Valens felt left. Yet in its place came a worse thought.
What if nothing has changed?
What if I am still the same man, a bastard who cheated death and poverty by capitalizing on my willingness to kill?

“Ah, my friend.” Paullus moved to the front of the desk and clapped Valens on the shoulder. “You should have told me you were coming. I would have been better prepared.”

“I need a favor,” said Valens.

Paullus gestured to a chair and Valens sat. “Anything you need is yours.”

“I need the German to train me. I am going to return to the arena.”

Paullus laughed. “For a moment I thought you serious. No, really, what do you need?”

“I wish I were joking. Antonice has gotten herself into some trouble with the army. In order to have the charges dropped, I agreed to fight again.”

“Tell me you jest.”

Valens shook his head.

“Did she do what she was accused of? You could hire a solicitor to argue her case. As a freeman you have that right, you know.”

“She is in the wrong. I am certain of it,” said Valens.

“How long do you have to train?”

“The games take place in a few days. Over the course of five days, I have to fight three times to the death in order to set Antonice free.”

“Three fights in one week? Impossible.” Paullus raked his hands through his hair, and white tufts stood on end. He looked Valens up and down, appraising him. “I fear for you, my friend. You have gotten so soft.”

“Soft?” Valens flexed his arm muscles. “I am not soft.”

“What have you done since leaving the ludus? Eat, sleep, enjoy your fame, spend some money, and bed a few women.”

Valens shrugged. He had earned his easier life.

“I know what you have not done,” said Paullus. “You have not trained.”

“I tried running up and down the Aventine carrying a tree trunk, but the neighbors stared.”

Paullus shook his head. “Always a smart comment with you.”

Valens shrugged again.

“I never fight a gladiator without training him for at least six months. Otherwise it is suicide.”

“I trained for eight years,” said Valens. “I do not need six months for my skills to return.”

“You need longer than you have. Besides, winning three fights in a series of games is impossible. Even if you fought to first blood, or if the winner was determined by referee, the task is too difficult. Is there no other way?”

“I can think of nothing. My sister has been accused of thievery. She encouraged her favorite, an aristocrat named Damian, to steal. The boy’s father arranged for him to join the legion and serve in Germania to pay for his deed. I have no family connection, but I do have my reputation as a gladiator.”

“So, it is the arena for you or death for her?”

“At least I have a chance of surviving.”

Paullus raked his hands through his hair again and sighed. “I love you like a son, Valens. That means I must love Antonice like a daughter. You became a gladiator to save her life. After cheating death for so long, are you willing to return with these impossible odds in order to save her once more?”

“I have no choice. She is my family, my responsibility. Antonice is all I have.”

“I wonder if she appreciates what you are doing for her.”

“She does not even know.”

“Go home tonight. Get your affairs in order. Come back in the morning. You will need to live at the ludus and become a gladiator again if you want to win.”

“To save my sister, I must win,” said Valens.

Before leaving the ludus, there was one last thing Valens needed to do—find a way to get Antonice from the city. If she were not in Rome, then she could not be taken into custody when—or if—he died. His former trainee, Baro, had family in Padua. Baro owed Valens nothing, yet options for removing his sister from Rome were limited. With an imperfect plan, Valens sought his former trainee.

Baro practiced in the middle of the arena, fighting two gladiators at once. Valens saw the eventual outcome well before the final blow fell. Without question the student had surpassed the master. Valens’s chest swelled with pride, and at the same instant contracted with shame. Pride that Baro had become an exquisite fighter, shame that Valens no longer possessed those skills himself.

“Hail, Valens Secundus,” said Baro as he walked away from opponents who limped, gripping their backs and sides. “I heard interesting news about you. Is it true, then? Are you returning to the games?”

“I wish it were interesting news and nothing more.”

“Are you daft, man? Why?”

Valens shrugged. “Might I have a private word?”

Baro accepted a clay cup of water from a slave and nodded his head to the far wall. They stood in the shade for a moment before Valens spoke. “I need a favor for my sister.”

“For the pretty Antonice, you can ask anything.”

“She is in trouble. I need her out of the city.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“It is the kind that makes it necessary for me to return to the arena in order to keep her out of it. Do you still have family in Padua?”

“I do. My aunt just birthed her seventh babe. Seven children, can you imagine?”

“With all those children, your aunt might need help,” said Valens.

“I could write to her and ask,” said Baro. “I assume you want this kept private.”

“Be as silent as the dead.”

“How will I find you when they reply?”

“Simple,” said Valens. “I am not just returning to the arena. I am going to live in the ludus again, too.”

Chapter 22

Phaedra

The walls surrounding the villa closed in upon Phaedra. The noonday sun, a great white ball in a cloudless sky, heated the garden. Near a bench grew an orange tree; a single shriveled piece of fruit clung to its stunted branches. Oppressed, she sought the cool and the dark of her rooms and stared outside.

She recalled the events of the morning—Acestes and his formal proposal of marriage, her refusal to answer, and her father’s encouragement to accept. Phaedra shifted on the sofa, the silk gown clinging to her sweat-damp skin. Her father was right about one thing: she had grown accustomed to living as her own mistress, and residing in his house no longer suited her.

Life with Marcus had been full of freedoms. She traveled often with him, but there were times when he was in Rome and she, Pompeii. During those times she answered to no one. As a daughter in her father’s home, he controlled her every move again. Or did he? Could she simply walk to the market and purchase, say, an orange and tear through its dimpled skin, releasing a spray of citrus into the air?

Well, why not? Her father had not forbidden her to leave the villa. Rules had not been established since her return as a widow. The air pressed down on her skin. She sat up.

The Capitoline Market sprawled out at the base of the hill, close enough to walk with just Terenita as her escort. She could avoid calling for a litter and guards, making her trip much less likely to draw her father’s attention.

Phaedra stood. “Terenita, I would have an orange.”

“Yes, my lady.” The maid clapped her hands, and another slave entered the room.

“No,” said Phaedra, “not from the kitchens. We shall go to the Capitoline Market and buy one.”

Terenita hesitated. “Whatever pleases you, my lady.”

Leaving the claustrophobic villa pleased her very much. They walked to the front door without encountering anyone else. A guard outside dozed in the shade. He opened his eyes and stood taller as she shut the door. He did not stop her or try to keep her from leaving. It was his job to keep people
out
of her home, not in.

Terenita held a silk parasol overhead, and their footfalls echoed on the quiet streets. No vendors pushed carts up and down the hill, calling out for people to buy their wares. No slaves washed the high walls or swept in front of red-roofed villas. Everyone had been, like Phaedra, hiding away to escape the midday heat.

As she descended the Palatine Hill, the houses became less opulent, and the drowsy spell lifted. Lower mud-brown walls surrounded smaller homes. A few people milled about on the uneven, narrow lanes. A woman tossed a bucket’s worth of refuse into the gutters before shutting a wooden door with a loud crack. Two thin dogs snarled at each other as they ate whatever the woman had just thrown away. Phaedra crossed the street, not wanting to be too close to the mongrels or the bucket’s contents. Too late she saw a group of men huddled on a shaded corner. They stopped talking as she passed. Sweat trickled down Phaedra’s back, and her pulse beat fast. She should have been content to eat an orange from the kitchen.

Just as she decided to return home, the avenue widened and the market stretched out in front of her. Wooden stalls with roofs and walls of colorful cloth spread out before her. Singular voices mingled until they became one sound—no longer words, just noise. She caught the spicy scent of cinnamon and the heavy fragrance of fennel mixed with the seductive undertones of jasmine. Phaedra did not know what to see, smell, or listen to first.

At that moment Phaedra realized why she had wanted to come to the market. She did not care about the orange or the freedom to roam at will. She wanted to find out about Valens Secundus. Perhaps she would hear a pleb mention his name as they passed, or spy a tattered and weather-worn bulletin announcing his next game. What she most wanted was to see him in the flesh. She scanned the market and saw faces, thousands of faces, in all skin tones. But she did not see Valens with his hazel eyes. She gave a passing thought to finding his ludus. She discarded it quickly. Even though Phaedra had seen most of the civilized world, she was still not bold enough to seek out the company of a gladiator at his ludus.

Today she would settle for a memory.

“Terenita,” she said, “can you find the silk merchant I used before my wedding?”