The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) (8 page)

Chapter 13

Year of the consulship of Marius and Flaccus 654 years after the founding of Rome (100 BC)

Phaedra

From the galley’s deck, Phaedra stood at the prow and watched as the brown urban sprawl that was Rome came into view. She had left four years before as a young bride, and in all that time had never found a compelling reason to return. Yet here she was—home.

So close to the waterfront were they that the sails had been lowered and the oarsmen belowdecks propelled them forward. Someone beat upon a drum, marking the time for each stroke. But to Phaedra it seemed as though the ship had a heartbeat of its own.

While away from Rome, Phaedra had seen much. In her first year of marriage, she had sailed around the Hellespont. Since then, she had climbed the steep stairs to the Parthenon—the seat of commerce in Athens. Over land she had traveled to the base of the Alps and watched with wonder as the jagged mountain faces turned purple with the setting sun. A galley, much like this one, had carried her to Sicily, where she stood atop lush green hills that ended in cliffs leading to white sand beaches. And her final trip, the one she had longed to take from the beginning, brought her across the Mediterranean Sea to Alexandria. Phaedra had been standing on the steps of the famed library when Marcus first coughed up blood.

At first her husband had said he wanted to return home to recover. But as she watched his strength and vitality slip away a little each day, Phaedra came to understand that Marcus wanted to die in Rome.

Their ship approached the harbor. The oarsmen ceased their strokes as the drumbeat from the bowels of the ship died away. Several ropes were thrown ashore, and they were pulled up to the docks. Phaedra ducked under the awning where Marcus dozed on the deck, a sofa having been brought aboard for his comfort.

She gave his arm a slight squeeze.

Marcus opened his eyes with a start. “Phaedra,” he said. “Have we arrived in Rome?”

“We have.” She helped Marcus to stand. The boat shuddered underfoot as it was moored.

“Smell that?” Marcus breathed in and began to wheeze. “No wonder I cough blood. The stink of the city is enough to burn anyone’s lungs.”

Phaedra smiled and thanked the gods that her husband retained a sense of humor about his weakening body. They walked down the plank arm in arm, their journey complete.

Two litters awaited them at the docks, along with several carts for their belongings. Phaedra helped Marcus recline in the cushioned litter and tried to ignore his raspy breathing, his too-thin arms, and the dried blood that clung to the corner of his mouth.

She settled herself among the cushions of the second litter and looked at the city as it passed. She tried to see the Rome of her youth among the never-ending building projects sponsored by the Senate. The lines between old and new were so hazy that she barely recognized her childhood home.

New statues stood at a familiar intersection, and they passed a large fountain that she did not recall at all. Scaffolding climbed up the outside of a building that was being enlarged. Men wheeled carts and carried loads on their shoulders—it was a hive of busyness. The streets seemed noisier and more crowded than she remembered. Or perhaps they had always been thus, and she was now seeing them in juxtaposition to the wide lanes of Pompeii.

They made their way through the Capitoline Market, hectic with late-morning shoppers. Through the sheer curtains of her litter, Phaedra studied each face that passed. She strained to see if she could find the stall of a particular silk merchant. Or the broad shoulders and wavy brown hair of a gladiator she had known long ago and for an all-too-brief moment.

Valens. He had been with her each night as she looked at the sky and found Polaris. He visited her in dreams, and she saw him in the men she passed on the street. Excited and nervous, she would be positive that
this
time she saw him. But as the man came close, Phaedra would realize that it was not Valens and, once again, her mind had tricked her.

The litter stopped on the street in front of the villa. “Senator Scaeva waits for you in the dining room,” the housekeeper, Jovita, said to Phaedra. Two male slaves helped Marcus alight from the litter.

“Call for a physician,” said Phaedra. She bit her lip, not knowing which doctor to request. She had been gone so long, far too long.

“Your father has seen to it already, my lady.”

Phaedra was unsure if she should be relieved or offended that her father had taken charge in such a way. She was no longer his to order about, nor was it his place to make decisions for her. Yet, if it helped Marcus heal, then she would allow his interference this once. “Make sure to see to all the comforts of the dominus,” she said to Jovita before leaving to find her father.

The villa had four dining rooms, although Phaedra had not lived in the house long enough to commit even a single room to her memory. By Fortune’s grace alone, she stumbled upon the smallest triclinium, reserved for the family. Her father reclined on a sofa, a plate of stewed meat resting on his ample stomach.

Phaedra’s father had been a guest at the Pompeian villa on several occasions. Why was it that she was now nervous to see him? Was it because Marcus was so gravely ill? Or rather, because in Pompeii, Phaedra was the mistress of her villa and a grown woman, but here in Rome, and especially with her father, she felt like a child again.

“How fares your husband?”

Phaedra wiped her damp palms on the sides of her gown and sat. A whirl of dust rose up around her. Her eyes itched and watered. “He is unwell.”

“It is hard to imagine the Senate without him,” said her father. “He will be sorely missed.”

Had her father nothing else to say? Marcus had been a close friend and mentor. Did his inevitable passing not warrant more emotions?

“He will be sorely missed by more than the Senate,” she said.

Nodding, her father chewed another piece of meat. “I wish you two had made a child,” he said around his food.

Phaedra reached for a slice of orange from a tray of fruit sitting on a table next to her father. “There are many things that I wish were different. A child is just one.”

“Has he named an heir?” her father asked.

She shook her head. “He wanted to return to Rome first.”

The housekeeper stood at the door. “Pardon, the dominus wishes to see you both.”

Phaedra held her father’s arm and followed the housekeeper to Marcus’s chamber. Her husband lay on a bed surrounded by pillows. His once full mane of hair was now sparse, and his skin had faded to the color of a dove’s wing. Two short, dark men stood nearby. They spoke in Greek, and although Phaedra understood little of what they said, she surmised that these were the doctors.

Marcus held up his hand. “My wife. My friend. Come to me, both of you.”

Phaedra sat on the edge of the bed and held Marcus’s frail hand in hers.

Her father leaned in and spoke overly loudly. “We are here. Whatever you need, just ask.”

“I need to name an heir,” Marcus said, his voice hoarse. Speaking the few words consumed his energy. He sank deeper into the pillows and breathed his raspy, rattling breath.

Phaedra’s father reached around her and grasped Marcus’s other hand. “We will honor any and all of your wishes.”

“You have been a good friend, Scaeva,” Marcus said. He tried to smile, and his purple gums showed. “You gave me one of my greatest treasures—your daughter.”

A treasure? His treasure? Phaedra’s throat constricted and her chest tightened. Marcus was dying. She had known this for more than a week. But until now, she had been so focused upon their return to Rome that she had never thought of him as dead. Gone.

“You do me a great honor,” her father said.

“I regret we never had children, Phaedra. Out of all my wives, you would have made the best mother.”

“I love you,” she said.

“And I love you. Are the physicians close?” Marcus asked. “Bring them close so they may bear witness to what I say. I leave my money and lands to a member of my family. My nephew, Acestes, proved himself a leader in Sicily, and now he serves Rome well in Africa.”

“Acestes? Is he your heir?” asked Phaedra’s father.

“I have no one else,” said Marcus.

Phaedra could feel the tension emanating from her father.

“But surely I have been more your son than father-in-law!”

How could her father make such a demand of Marcus on his deathbed? She could not allow her father to push her ill husband in this way.

“Not now,” she hissed.

“If not now, then when?”

She turned to glare at her father, shocked to find his features as guileless as a baby’s. Was he so focused on gaining Marcus’s fortune that he did not understand how wrong his actions were? “Father, do you think of no one other than yourself?”

“Please do not quarrel now,” said Marcus. “I need to sleep. When I wake, we can discuss my choice of heir. Of course, if the law allowed, I would leave my fortune to you, Phaedra.”

“You could still leave your fortune to her,” said her father, “by leaving it to me.”

Marcus answered by closing his eyes.

There was much Phaedra wanted to say to her father, yet for her husband and his well-being, she would keep her peace. Still, her face burned with shame at her father’s blatant opportunism. “Let him rest. I find your single-mindedness disturbing. This is my husband, your friend, who is dying.” She mouthed the last word, afraid that speaking it out loud would bring about the inevitable all the faster.

“You do not know how dire things have become.” Her father’s eyes were moist, with a pleading look.

Although he slept, Phaedra patted Marcus’s hand before leading her father to the far side of the room where they might speak without disturbing her husband’s rest. “Dire how?”

“My accounts are near empty.”

“Four years ago, on my wedding day, Marcus gave you one million sesterces, a dowry in reverse. Four years?” She paced, trying to expel the anger, which filled her with its venom. “You squandered a fortune, Father. How can that be? My husband made you a very rich man.”

“I wish you understood all the pressure upon me. There are so many expenses. Food, clothes”—he held up a fold of his tunic. The woven cloth shimmered and flowed with liquidlike movement. Phaedra reckoned it cost several thousand denarii, more than a pleb might ever see during his life.

“Marcus would be a fool to name you his heir. You would spend all his money in a decade, maybe less.”

“Let us not quarrel. What has been done has been done. Yet, you need to ask yourself this question: When Marcus dies, who will care for
you
?”

She knew the answer. Paterfamilias dictated that Phaedra once again became her father’s property. If her father did not have coin enough for his own care and well-being, he would never have enough to provide for her. So that was his game. She was unable to look her father in the eye.

“I see that you understand the predicament.”

A chill settled on Phaedra, and she folded her arms over her chest to conserve any warmth.

“Convince him to change his mind,” her father said.

“Pardon,” said one of the Greek doctors. Both Phaedra and her father turned to look. “My sympathies,” the physician said. “He is gone.”

Marcus lay on the bed in the same posture they had left him. He no longer breathed. Since he had died in his sleep, she did not need to close his eyes. Still, she slipped her fingers over his lids and placed a final kiss on his lips. “Marcus,” she called to his spirit. “Marcus. Marcus. Marcus.” How many times did she need to say his name before his soul found the portal to the River Styx? “Marcus,” she said once more.

Her father nodded and she stopped.

The doctors placed Marcus’s body on the ground. They washed him in water mixed with special oils. Afterward they redressed him, and Phaedra placed a single silver denarius on his lips. She overpaid Charon, the ferryman, in hopes that through her generosity Marcus might be treated well during the ferry ride that would end in the paradise of Elysium.

Phaedra looked around the room. Everything spoke of her husband. Shelves filled with wax tablets and scrolls lined one wall. A desk, cluttered with sheets of papyrus, sat near the door to the garden. Dark leather chairs flanked a tarnished brazier in the middle of the floor.

She imagined Marcus in this very room, working until late at night. Phaedra turned to the doctors. “Please send word to General Acestes that his uncle has passed and named him as heir.”

Then she addressed her father. “We need to make arrangements for the funeral procession.”

Her father held up one finger to the physicians and pulled Phaedra to the door leading to the gardens. “You cannot give up this money. You heard Marcus—he changed his mind.”

Her husband had said nothing of the sort. Her father understood the truth as well as she did, and so did the doctors who had witnessed the whole scene. Yet he grabbed for a fortune that did not belong to him.

She refused to give in to her father’s schemes. Shaking her head, Phaedra said, “His mind was set. We all four heard it.”

Her father glanced at the Greeks and leaned in closer. She knew what he was thinking.

“Do not even suggest it,” she said before he spoke a word. “I will not steal from my late husband, nor will I bribe or hurt innocent men to hide that sin.”

Senator Scaeva stood taller. “I was not going to suggest anything of the kind. I will go to Marcus’s tablinum and write a missive to General Acestes personally. I will also have the announcement read in the forum. That will be the easiest way to notify everyone.”

His easy acceptance of her defiance puzzled Phaedra. Yet she dutifully kissed her father’s full cheek, and he left the room. The physicians placed Marcus on a sheet in order to carry the body to the atrium. With his feet pointed toward the door, he would remain in the house for the full eight days of mourning. On the eighth day a funeral procession would wind through the streets and end with his cremation outside of the city.

And then what?

Then he would be gone. Truly gone. The simple fact left Phaedra heavy and gritty, as if she were not flesh and blood but a dried skin filled with sand. She wandered to the garden. Like a damp and dirty blanket, a low gray sky lay over Rome. Fine mist hung suspended in the air and trapped a chill. She took the stolla from her head and wrapped it over her shoulders.