The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) (3 page)

“The gladiator does not belong here,” Acestes said.

Valens lifted his eyes. His look flashed with the same razor-sharp edge as his sword. Acestes saw it, too, and stepped back. Lifting his chest, Valens stood tall, his legs spread and braced. “Apologies if my presence offends.”

Phaedra knew that Valens did not feel the least sorry.

“Go to the kitchens, Gladiator,” Acestes said. “Have someone fetch guards from your ludus. It is time you returned home.”

“Only if the lady wishes it so. I need to see to her safety.”

“I am her family, one of her kind.” Acestes leaned toward the gladiator.

The air in the garden crackled with hostility. Phaedra could not allow an altercation. Acestes was a patrician. If Valens did him harm, he would violate one of Rome’s oldest and most sacred laws. Regardless of the reason or outcome of any fight, for Valens, a slave—property and not a man—the consequences would be severe. He would suffer torture, maiming, followed by a slow and agonizing death.

Lifting her hand to the left, Phaedra said, “The kitchens are over there.”

Valens looked at her once and then lowered his eyes. “Gratitude, my lady.”

Acestes placed his hand on Phaedra’s elbow and steered her back to the party. “You and I need to talk,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder at the gladiator as they walked away. “Thank you,” she said.

Valens faded into the shadow of an orange tree, his figure a black form within the darkness. But even though she could no longer see his features, Phaedra glimpsed him holding her crimson bridal veil. Slowly, carefully he wrapped it around his wrist, covering the place she had held him when they bound themselves to one another and swore to change their fates.

Acestes said nothing as they walked through the garden and away from Valens. Once the lights of the house and the jumbled voices of her father’s guests poured onto the terrace, he stopped and turned to face her.

“What were you doing with the gladiator?” Acestes asked.

Phaedra’s mouth went dry. She had not kissed Valens, but she had encouraged him to hold her and had returned the embrace. That alone might cause her ruin. “I told you already.” She had hoped to sound annoyed with the question, or at least weary of the asking. Instead her voice came out too high and trembled slightly. She breathed in deeply and emptied her lungs slowly. “He was just about to leave when you arrived. I needed some time alone.”

“Alone? You were with the gladiator. Did you arrange to meet him?”

“I would never dishonor your uncle or myself in such a way,” she said. She put the sharp edge of outrage in her voice, and still she could not deny to herself that a part of her still craved the gladiator’s touch.

“Many women take gladiators as lovers. You would not be the first.”

Phaedra felt the argument shifting to her benefit. Surely Acestes would have accused her of wrongdoing if he had actually seen anything. “I am not many women. I tire of your insults and will once again take my leave.”

“Phaedra, wait.” Acestes placed his hand on her shoulder as she turned to go. “I have offended. I do not know what to say, because you intrigue me.”

“You cannot speak to me thus,” she said. Her heart beat fast in her chest. Phaedra had never dealt with a man of rank before. Her father had kept her hidden away behind the walls of the villa, allowing her to have a circle of suitable patrician girls for friends. For the first time she understood her disadvantage. She wanted to be rid of Acestes’s indictments and accusations and the very maleness of him. She slipped away from his grasp. Avoiding the villa and her drunken guests, she ran along the outer colonnade to her room, leaving Acestes standing alone.

Terenita sat on a stool, a single oil lamp burning on a table nearby. She stood when Phaedra entered. “My lady, I had begun to worry.”

“Thank you for your concern,” she said as she leaned her head onto Terenita’s shoulder. The maid stiffened under Phaedra’s touch. Terenita was a kind and gentle woman, but she kept a physical distance from everyone. As a child Phaedra was never offered an embrace upon waking or a hug that followed a skinned knee. Above all else, it was this lack of touch that kept Phaedra mindful of her position as mistress and of Terenita’s as slave. Phaedra stepped away, realizing that she had been foolish to expect that somehow her maid had suddenly become demonstrative. “I was overwhelmed and went for a walk in the garden,” she said. “Did you know that there is a fixed star in the heavens? Polaris, it is called. Sailors use it to navigate the seas.”

“I believe that the stars are really the spirits of our ancestors looking down upon us. But if you want me to believe that they are not, I shall.”

“No, Terenita. You can believe whatever you want,” Phaedra said with a small smile. She sat at her cosmetics table and rested her face upon the cool marble top.

Phaedra’s room had changed little since her childhood. A single bed, with a curved head and footboard, took up its middle. A table with a basin and pitcher for washing sat in one corner, with a reclining sofa covered in red silk at another. In order to make use of the bright Mediterranean sun, her cosmetics table and chair sat next to the door that opened onto the garden. A cabinet that usually held her clothes and jewels stood on one side of the door that led to the villa, with a small altar on the other. Clay figures of various goddesses and one of Phaedra’s mother sat atop the wooden altar. Candles burned in sconces high on the wall, bathing the room in a weak golden light.

“Shall I take down your hair, my lady?” Terenita asked. “The board holding your bun in place must be pulling by now.”

“Thank you,” Phaedra said as she lifted her head. Picking up a palm frond, she slowly fanned her face as the maid unwound her hair. Even in the scant light, she saw the flowers arranged on the small tables set throughout her room, rose petals on her bed, and a large basket of fruit near her reclining sofa. At least her chamber had been decorated correctly with symbols of fertility. Perhaps when Marcus arrived they would participate in the ritual of touching fire and water while pledging to be together through every extremity.

“My room looks beautiful,” she said to Terenita.

“I hoped it would please you, my lady. Without you having either mother or aunt, I took the liberty to make sure you were treated like the lovely bride you are.”

“You are mother and aunt to me,” Phaedra said. The words came out thin as a thread, emotion having all but stolen her voice. She wiped away a tear and remembered that Terenita loved her for who she really was, even if no one else cared for her beyond what she might give, or be, for them.

“I almost forgot,” said Terenita. “Your father came looking for you earlier. He will be back directly.”

Phaedra’s throat closed. “What did he want?”

Before Terenita could answer, three loud knocks came from the closed bedchamber door. It opened without invitation. Her father stood on the threshold, his white toga gleaming in the candlelight. “Where have you been?” he asked.

Had Acestes, the serpent, told her father about finding Phaedra alone with Valens? Or had someone else spied them? That thought made her ill. Phaedra gripped tighter to the armrests. “Where do you think I have been?” she asked, deciding instead to see what her father knew.

“You were at the table one moment. I left to relieve myself and you were gone when I returned.”

Phaedra sighed. Her head throbbed and she laid her cheek upon the stone top of her cosmetics table. “I needed some air,” she said.

“This has been a momentous day for you.”

“It has.”

“Terenita, fetch the matron of honor. I would like to have a moment alone with my daughter.”

Once the maid left, her father pulled a chair next to hers and eased down, shifting slightly to fit his corpulent frame onto the seat. “I must tell you, my dear, that I am not obtuse to your plight.”

Gods save her,
did
he know about the gladiator? Had he only wanted Terenita gone so she did not bear witness to Phaedra’s shame? “Father, allow me to explain.”

He held up a hand and she stopped speaking. “I married your mother for love. My father let me choose my own wife. At the time I did not realize the gift he had given me. To truly love your spouse is to know that you will never be alone. I never remarried after she died because no one would be for me what she had been.”

She had heard her father say much the same to her before. This time she wondered what her parents’ match had to do with Valens. Had the same silent and powerful attraction that had drawn her to the gladiator also brought her mother and father together?

“And now I have you,” he said. “I always had hoped to give you the same gift—a spouse that you love. I cannot and that pains me. Marcus is fond of you. He will treat you well. You will be one of the wealthiest women in Rome. While not a love match, I have found that ample coin can bring great happiness, too.”

Phaedra’s tight shoulders relaxed. He knew nothing of Valens, thank the gods. “I understand, Father.”

“You are more precious to me than all the sesterces in the world. By marrying Marcus, you saved us both from financial ruin. Had this marriage not taken place, I would have had to sell some property. Not long ago I received a generous offer for Terenita.”

Terenita? Phaedra gasped. “I could not live without her.”

“I thought as much. In fact, I have given her to Marcus as a wedding gift to you.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Her father shrugged. “I think it is what your mother would have suggested.”

Phaedra leaned forward and kissed her father’s cheek. Much of her indignation at being forced into a marriage faded away. Yet she wondered what might have become of them all if the lifestyle of patrician and senator had not defined their lives.

“I wish Mother were here,” she said.

“Do you recall much of her?”

“Her voice. She liked to sing.”

“You are very much like your mother, with her dark hair and blue eyes. Both of you are the quintessential Roman woman—agreeable and always willing to do your duty. She would be proud of you today,” he said.

“I hope so. Maybe she watches us from Elysium.” Her mother’s final words to obey her father rang again in Phaedra’s ears. “I want her to be proud.”

He squeezed her chin. “I am sure she is. I do wish she would send me a sign. I feel as though I should say something to prepare you for your first night as wife.”

“I have friends who have told me what to expect.”

He seemed relieved. “Good. I should go, then, my dear.” Her father braced his large hands on his knees and hefted out of the chair. “Fortunada should be waiting to say the final blessing.”

Phaedra rubbed her wrist at the same place that Valens had held on to her earlier. Knowing that in his melancholy mood her father would refuse her nothing, she did not hesitate. “Father, wait. Can I ask something very important of you?”

Her father lowered himself back into the chair.

“If I ever find that I am no longer married,” she said, “will you allow me to choose my next husband?”

“You mean if you become a widow, not if Marcus divorces you?”

Phaedra shrugged. “I have no ill wish for my husband, but he is older even than you.”

“And that makes him almost ancient.” Her father’s eyes twinkled, but looked sad, too.

“I did not mean to imply that.”

“Yes, my dear, you did. But I agree. If you outlive Marcus, then you will marry next when it is your choice.”

“And to a man of my choice,” she said.

“To a man of your choice,” he said, “providing that you are an honest and true wife now.”

Her father was what? Forty-three annums, maybe forty-four. That made Marcus fifty, give or take a year. Too old for her, and yet he might live for another decade. A few robust souls even lived until their seventh decade. That would make Phaedra a widow at the same age as her father was now.

Valens.

His face, his body, his voice all returned to her. Was she willing to lose her chance at picking her next husband for a man she had met once?

No, Phaedra decided, she was not.

“I agree to your demands, Father.”

Chapter 5

Valens

Every day Valens looked upon the two hills reserved for the homes of Rome’s wealthiest citizens. The Palatine and Aventine hills were together known as the Capitoline. Most of the patricians lived upon the Palatine, and those with less distinguished lineage upon the Aventine. The busiest marketplace in the republic ran along the base of the two hills. Among the shops, taverns, and stalls sat the ludus, or gladiator school, in which Valens lived and trained.

Like many slaves, Valens had taken the last name of his master as his own. With his loyalty, renown, and the most winning record of any gladiator, Valens was treated with the deference of a prince, even though he was in reality a slave. Other slaves brought in to serve the gladiators were told to obey Valens without question. The lanista often introduced him to foreign dignitaries and wealthy visitors. If Valens requested to leave the ludus, he could, although his wanting do that happened rarely. In fact, there was but a single reminder of his status as a slave—the guards who accompanied him wherever he went.

Even though he accepted them as fact, their presence rankled as they walked away from Senator Scaeva’s villa, and Phaedra. Surrounded by four armed men, he trudged down the steep street that wound back and forth across the Palatine Hill. Their footfalls on the worn cobbles echoed off the high walls of the surrounding villas. Each guard carried a short sword and wore a leather breastplate and a bronze helmet. He watched as the sword swung in the scabbard and hit the thigh of the one who carried a torch aloft. Valens could grab the blade and drive it into the hollow of the guard’s armpit, then slay the others before they fell upon him like ravenous wolves. But to what end? So he could walk home alone and think about the beautiful and keen-minded bride?

The Forum Boarium, the sometime gladiatorial arena and oftentimes cattle market, lay a short distance from the ludus. At this hour of the night, without the crowds, Valens saw the spindly outline of the temporary wooden stands erected for a series of games scheduled for later in the week. He would not fight, not this time, and Valens thanked the Fates for keeping him alive, at least for now. The round wooden-roofed monument to Hercules Victor rose up to the left of the ludus. Long and low, the Temple of Portunus stretched out to the right. In the distance the Tiber wound its way to the Mediterranean. Moonlight glinted off the darkened waters until the river looked serpentine, as if it were a living thing, waiting to devour them all.

“The lanista wishes to speak to you,” said the guard with the torch as they walked through the empty marketplace.

Valens nodded. “I will see him in the morning before training.”

“No. He wants to see you now.”

“Now? Why?”

The guard shrugged.

Paullus most likely wanted to offer congratulations on another successful fight. But it was late, and if Valens were to train tomorrow, he needed his sleep tonight. Tired gladiators fought in a sloppy manner.

Valens was never sloppy.

Unless this meeting had to do with what had happened after the party with Phaedra. While nothing
had
happened, speaking privately in a garden while they stood close to one another had the power to ruin them both.

Adulterous women were not treated kindly, often thrown to the arena where they were fed to starving beasts. Valens wagered that Phaedra’s maidenhead was still intact, and therefore she was likely to suffer only disgrace.

He, on the other hand, could be executed for any reason. Valens considered his options. He looked at the short sword the guard still wore at his side. A quick flick of the blade, one more life gone, and Valens could slip away into the night.

Murdering the guard was the coward’s way out, though, and Valens refused to be a coward. Besides, everyone died sometime. Death was Rome’s great equalizer.

“Take me to the lanista,” Valens said.

They approached the shared compound of the gladiator school and the home of Paullus Secundus and his family. Rather than bang on the large wooden gates leading to the training grounds and cells where Valens and the other gladiators lived, the guard escorted him around the corner to the front door of the house.

Valens unwound the veil from his wrist and tucked it under the belt at his waist. No need to bring attention to the fact that he had been alone with Phaedra. And yet the veil served to remind him that he had the power to change his destiny, or so she believed.

He cast a quick glance upward and found Polaris in an instant. The immovable object in the sky steeled his resolve at once. He was Valens Secundus, Champion of Rome. There was nothing he could not achieve, even if it was mastering words and written language. Perhaps one day he could win his freedom.

Valens followed the guard through the atrium. The ceiling had been cut away to let in rain with a shallow pool underneath to collect the water. To his right, a blue canvas curtain hung over a doorway, obscuring the tablinum where Paullus conducted all his business. The guard pulled aside the curtain and Valens stepped through.

Paullus Secundus sat behind his large wooden desk, surrounded by a halo of light. An oil lamp burned at his elbow, and a fat candle spluttered in a holder on the wall. Aside from the desk, there was scant space for anything else in the room. A small shelf to the left of the desk held several scrolls, neatly stacked. Alongside were a few wooden boxes that contained waxen tablets. Two chairs sat in front of the desk. The lanista raked his hand through a shock of white hair as he scratched a stylus over a tablet. Valens let out a polite cough after entering, and Paullus looked up.

“You made a fine impression tonight,” Paullus said with a wide and easy smile.

The tension slipped from his shoulders as Valens said, “I fight to honor you and this ludus.”

“Sit.” Paullus gestured to a chair opposite the desk. “I would have a word with you.”

Valens sat and waited for his master to begin.

“What did you think of the gladiator you fought?”

“He is eager,” said Valens, “but fights with little grace and no thought to the entertainment he provides.”

“He is an auctoratus.”

“A volunteer, like me?”

“Yes and no,” said Paullus. “He is a volunteer, but no normal man. He is an equestrian.”

“A knight of the Roman republic? Has he any military experience?”

“Some.”

“That explains his aggressive fighting style,” said Valens. “An equestrian turned gladiator will draw large crowds. Romans will love watching one from their own upper class fight in the arena.”

“I mean for him to be more than a novelty, and I want him trained quickly and well. He refuses a complete conscription and will only fight for six years. But in him I see the spark of greatness, and I want him as Rome’s new champion.”

Valens sat back, the air sucked from his lungs. “If he is champion, what does that make me?”

“I recall the first day you came to the ludus. I had been watching the gladiators practice when my steward told me that a conscript wished to join. I expected to see that a man had volunteered. Instead, I walked in to this office and found a thin boy. You could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen annums.”

“I know not. My mother never reckoned my age.”

“In your eyes I saw a hunger that had more to do with glory than food,” said Paullus. “Although you behaved like a starved pup would and ate more than enough for two boys in those first few weeks.”

Valens did recall that day. For three weeks his younger sister, Antonice, had been ill. She had stopped eating and drinking. Her lips were cracked and they bled. There was no money for food, much less a physician. His mother thought to throw the child, only five annums, over the cliffs and end her suffering with minimal cost. Before his mother acted, Valens had come to the gladiator school and had sworn to be loyal and brave for the rest of his days in order to earn a wage and help keep his mother and sister alive.

For Antonice’s life he had willingly traded his freedom. Taking the gladiator’s oath—
Uri, Vinciri, Vererari, Ferroque, Necari
—Valens had sworn to endure being burned, bound, and beaten, and to die by the sword. He had taken Paullus’s brand, now just a small silver scar on the front of his shoulder. It was a promise worth making. Antonice and his mother lived well. He had been given a purpose beyond an impoverished life in the Suburra. Eight years had passed since then, and from that day to this, Valens had kept his promise.

“You are in top form now, but you are getting older,” said Paullus. “How long can you continue to win? Would you not prefer to leave competition as a champion? You could have a long life as a trainer.”

Ah, so that was it. Valens had never considered what Paullus might do when he stopped being useful. Profitable. No one had ever stayed in the arena as long as Valens. Most of the men who had joined the gladiator troupe with him had died long ago. A select few had gained their freedom when they became too old to fight. Was now Valens’s time?

“I will train your new gladiator,” Valens said, “but I ask two things of you.”

“Of course.”

“First, the equestrian will teach me to read and write if I teach him to fight.”

Paullus looked surprised, but nodded. “What is your second request?”

“To be set free.”

Paullus had begun to rise from his seat but fell back hard. “Free? This is your home. The gladiators are your family. I am your family. Why leave?”

“My sister and mother live in the Suburra. I would be with them more.”

“You can visit them now all you want.”

Phaedra’s face flashed in his mind. Valens wanted to wed a woman like her and call her his own. “I would take a wife.”

“Most gladiators live at the ludus, true. But exceptions can be made. Jupiter knows you are a wealthy man. Buy a villa and take a wife. I will let you live wherever you want.”

“As a freeman the choice would belong to me, not you.”

Paullus sighed and rubbed his forehead. “The equestrian can teach you to read and write. I cannot give you your freedom, but in a few years, when the time is right, perhaps. For now you will remain with the ludus. You may not fight much longer, but you must remain a part of the troupe and mold new gladiators in your image. Valens Secundus: The Maker of Champions. The title fits, does it not?”

Disappointment roiled in his stomach. It coated his tongue. He wanted to spit. “Yes, it does,” he lied.

“I will allow you to come and go as you please, so long as you continue to train.”

“Without guards?” Valens asked.

“You are worth too much to let you out unattended.”

“Is it my worth, or do you doubt my return?”

Paullus moved to the front of his desk. He leaned on it, clasping his hands before him. “There is no one I trust more, Valens. If you desire to leave the ludus unattended, then you may.”

“Thank you,” Valens said. “Do you require more of me?”

“No. Sleep well. In the morning you begin working with the new gladiator.”

A guard stood in the atrium waiting to escort Valens to the barracks attached to the house. Although weary of body, mind, and spirit, Valens doubted he would sleep much. He had found a tutor for his reading and writing. With literacy he could cross the line separating man from beast. There was also the possibility that one day he might gain his freedom. Valens Secundus, freeman. Ah, now there was a title that fit. Yet right now he was still a slave, and the one thing he truly wanted could never be his. Phaedra.

The guard unlocked the door to Valens’s cell and stepped aside to let him enter. The small square room sat in darkness. There were no windows to let in moonlight at night, sunlight during the day, or even give the room a breath of fresh air. The only illumination came from a torch the guard still held. Using instinct more than sight, Valens made his way to a small table and found a candle. He brought it back to the guard and touched the taper to the flame.

Flickering candlelight chased away the gloom, but just barely. No, Valens thought as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. This would not do, not anymore. He wanted more than a single bed crammed into a corner alongside a table and lone chair.

“Is there anything else you need?” the guard asked.

“Leave the door unlocked.”

The guard shook his head. “I cannot do that.”

“The lanista promised to let me come and go as I please,” said Valens.

“He did not tell me, and I hold the key.” The guard slammed the door and locked it, the iron jamb hitting the bars with a clang that reverberated in Valens’s chest.