Wolf’s Empire: Gladiator (29 page)

Instead of discussing ideology, we discussed arena tactics, and our sessions became a welcome distraction. My eyes returned again and again to his hands, big hands with strong, thick fingers. I'd catch myself daydreaming about those hands, of his running those fingers through my hair and pulling me forcefully to him. Other times I'd find myself caught up in dark fantasies where I was dismembering the Blood Hawks one by one, using Orbis to cut them to pieces for their offenses.

One afternoon as Crassus was walking me back to my cabin, Barbata met up with him. She kissed him passionately on the mouth and they went off together, her arm around his shoulder. A wave of jealousy hit me. I wanted to be in there with him. Not her.

“I saw how you looked at Crassus,” she said to me the next day. “Don't let me stop you if you wish to pursue him. I'm certain he has feelings for you. There is no love in our lovemaking. We simply take pleasure in each other's forms like two eagles with locked claws, falling through the empyrean. He's quite magnificent.”

“You're wrong. I have no interest in him.”

“And you're right.” She smiled. “He's probably not for you.”

I turned away from her to hide my confusion. Right then, I'd never wanted any man as much as I wanted Crassus. If we'd been alone right then, I'd have dragged him onto the nearest bed and ridden him until I screamed. How could I have such strong feelings? If I bedded him, that would make me every bit the traitor and whore the Viridians at the parade had accused me of being. Besides, I was no gladiator's moll. I had become a gladiator myself. I did not fawn and lust after other fighters from the sidelines. Juvenal wrote about the kind of woman who would sacrifice everything for a gladiator (the curse of having memorized the classics was that they were always with you, reminding you how inadequate you were). I allowed the urges to wash over me. The fantasies about Crassus were a wholly unwelcome distraction, no doubt a result of the extreme stress I'd been forced to endure.

*   *   *

I
T WAS THE SECOND
to last day of the week, and I was making headway, moving toward a final round where I'd face either Licinus or Castor Corvinus. After practice Crassus bid me follow him. “Today you spend time with Gaia Barbata,” he said. “She still has to share a gift with you. Something that will prepare you for the tournament.”

I was anxious. We'd exited the Janus Cardo the day before and entered normal space. I'd been expecting the Sertorians to hold their meeting and give me a chance to break into Licinus' quarters, but there'd been no announcement and Crassus was frustratingly punctual. Had they found out? Had Licinus discovered his code had been stolen? It might have been changed already. I might risk everything only to find myself locked out once I reached his cabin.

“Silly wolf cub,” Barbata said when I was in her charge. “Your problem is that you take things too seriously.” She seemed to have forgiven me for attacking her during bestiarii training, but I wouldn't make the mistake of trusting her.

“You don't think the tournament is a serious business?” I asked.

“Of course, but if you take it seriously, then it's all too much to bear, isn't it?”

“Maybe you should take the next after-practice beating for me, then,” I said wryly. “Then I'd feel much more relaxed about the whole thing.”

“You're all set to take pain like a good pleb, but you've got to learn to appreciate pleasure from time to time. You're going to come to the baths with me.”

“I'd rather have every hair in my body pulled out at once.”

“Funny you should say that. We're going to visit the ornatrix.”

“An ornatrix? I don't need to have a painted face and coiffed hair to fight in the emperor's arena.”

“I'm afraid I'm not going to give you any choice,” she said with a pout. “Now wipe that sour look from your face. You look as if you've eaten a raw olive.”

We took an elevator down to the recreation deck. The doors opened to another world. Gone was the clinical design that lined the rest of the ship. These were not the pleasant and functional washrooms of modern-day Rome; the Sertorians had re-created the indulgences of the past—a library, gardens, galleries filled with sculptures and carvings, ivories and treasures, no doubt plundered and looted from their victims. The entire complex seemed to stretch on forever. However much I hated the Sertorians, I had to admit they did opulence well. They were disciplined and efficient in their duties and self-indulgent sybarites in their leisure time.

“Shall we bathe, sister? Once you're all clean, you won't feel so much the mangy dog.”

“I'm fine as I am. I can shower later.”

“They make you shower? Now, that is punishment. All that water beating you. It makes the skin blotchy, ruins its luster,” she said with a horrified expression. “Please, just look at you, covered in sweat and blood and grime. I can barely stand next to you without wanting to run away. Bathe.”

We moved on past restaurants and a large natatorium where people swam. We passed bordellos where the ship's prostitutes called out to us to come and join them. Vaulted, light-filled spaces of shining steel and black marble softened by greenery—small fruit trees and flowering plants. It was an exorbitant waste of resources in space, an ostentatious display of wealth.

My body felt a pang for the baths as we passed them. Viridians are Stoic by nature. We don't indulge in sensuality on that scale, but baths are the birthright of every Roman.

“A short bath,” I conceded. “Just to clean off the dirt.”

“That's the spirit, Accala. You know what they say—cleanliness is second only to godliness.”

Barbata and I disrobed and bathed, surrounded by naked Sertorians. They were graceful specimens, like portraits painted by a generously paid artist. Steam and perfume filled the air, creating a miasma, a hedonistic fantasy world. While they reveled in their own sensual beauty, slaves rushed to serve them, delivering food and drink, carrying towels, massaging bodies, grooming them. I blinked and shook my head, reminding myself of what they really were—all perfectly formed thanks to genetic streamlining, all the same, like children's dolls rolling off a production line. They left it to styling to give them their uniqueness—fashion, hairstyles, painted nails. They were beautiful. They were grotesque.

Barbata had a perfect body, even by Sertorian standards, richly endowed with sensual curves. The Sertorian men and women admired her greatly, commenting on her beauty before their eyes trailed over me and their faces soured. Some even laughed at my appearance. Baths are public places, and I'd never before felt vulnerable bathing or been ashamed of my body, but I did there. Grabbing a sponge from a passing Iceni, I began scrubbing at my skin. I'd never felt so unclean.

“This was a mistake. I shouldn't be here,” I said. The bath should have been a luxury, but I was feeling the sting that accompanies every Sertorian gift.

“Be patient, Mock Hawk,” Barbata soothed. “It's important to learn to use what assets you have. A woman's body can be a weapon to sway the audience, to confound a male opponent. Every advantage must be seized.” She reached out to touch my hair with her fingertips, but then hesitated and pulled away like she'd spotted a nest of lice. “You are not unattractive in a homely way. Do you think that your current popularity is solely due to your skill in arms? Men and women like watching an attractive, athletic body in action. It's part of a whole package to thrill the senses and stimulate the eye.” She could tell I wasn't convinced. “Wait, then, until after the ornatrix has given you a little polish. Then see how you'll shine. And don't wash yourself,” she chided, plucking the sponge from my hand. “We bathe, the slaves massage us and then scrape the oil from our bodies. How do you Wolves get by at all?”

I didn't give a fig for Barbata and her expectations of what an ideal Sertorian female should look like. I hated feeling vulnerable, and if it weren't for the potential threat the bracelet about my wrist represented, I'd have been out of the water in a flash.

After the bath we dressed in clean robes, and she led me into a salon where dozens of Sertorian women reclined in padded chairs while slaves and stylists preened and prodded them. Their chatter stopped at once when we walked in the door. They looked at me with disgust and started whispering among themselves.

“This will be grand,” Barbata exclaimed. “A chance for us to really bond,” she said to me in a quieter voice, “like two sisters, so mind your manners and don't make me use the bracelet. Agreed?”

“I'll do my best,” I replied curtly.

A thin, elegant woman with alabaster skin and long fingers sailed toward us.

“Accala, this is Publia Sertorius Regilla,” Barbata said. “Publia is one of the most famous stylists in Aeria Sertorius province.”

“Gaia Barbata, what have you dragged in?” the woman asked as she flapped about me.

“Come now, don't pretend you don't know who this is.”

“The Mock Wolf,” the woman said sourly.

“Yes, and we need to turn our prickly wolf here into a resplendent hawk.”

Publia Regilla laughed like it was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. “My dear, you're asking for a miracle. It would be easier to make a silk purse from a sow's ear!” Publia turned to me. “Perhaps you've heard of me? For several months I was the personal ornatrix to Proconsul Aquilinus himself.”

“Did he sack you when he realized that nothing you could do could make him look good?” I asked plainly.

The women in the salon started chattering in outraged whispers. If Publia's shocked expression was anything to go by (at least I think it was shock—the skin was pulled so tightly over her face that I couldn't say for certain), you'd think I'd just killed her favorite aunt. “A barbarian! You've brought me a savage barbarian from the provinces. You tell her to keep a civil tongue in her head if she wants to stay in here.”

“Accala…” Barbata warned, her hand beside mine, nails tracing the inside line of my bracelet.

“Sorry,” I apologized to the ornatrix. I was starting to get a sense of just how crazy the Sertorians were over their beloved proconsul. They insisted they'd gotten rid of their gods, but all they'd done was to bundle them up and pack them into the small frame of that horrid little man they worshiped instead.

“Leave her with me,” Publia said to Barbata. “Get your own treatment, there's no rush. This creature is going to take a great deal of craft and more than a little art.”

Publia shooed me over to a reclining divan next to a cabinet with dozens of tiny drawers and trays containing all the tools of her trade. I went to lie down, but she put out a hand to stop me and clapped. Iceni slaves rushed in from the sides and began to undress me.

“No, I don't want to disrobe,” I said, pushing them away. The Sertorians in the pool had made me self-conscious, and I wasn't keen to repeat the process.

“Don't be such a diva. Didn't you just bathe in public? I have to see what I'm working with.”

I took a deep breath and let them get on with it. I steeled myself, thinking of the moment when I would claim Barbata's life, but right then she seemed the least objectionable of the team, and the thought of her without a head didn't really bring much consolation. The other Sertorian women who lingered in the salon sat up and stared, enjoying the show, commenting to each other on my appearance, giggling and snickering.

“Now the hair, put it down.” I pulled out my mother's pin. The black locks fell to the middle of my back. Publia reached out and briefly ran it back and forth between her fingers. “It's like a dishrag, oily and dirty. The body isn't bad, but too tight and muscular, like some starving animal.”

“I'm an athlete,” I said.

“You're forgetting that an athlete in the Ludi Romani is a performer, and the audience is the emperor and the galactic mob,” she said dismissively. “Yes, some softening, rounding, and smoothing required on the surface. We'll leave the muscles below, of course. The main focus will be above the neck.” Publia turned my head this way and that like a sculptor appraising a rough-hewn statue.

Her comment stung, but when she turned me round so I could see my body in a full-length mirror, I realized just how run-down I was. The tisane had been bolstering me in place of sleep, but I hadn't realized that I looked so haggard, so worn.

“I want a robe,” I insisted. “Now.”

Publia sighed and clapped her hands. A slave brought a sheer robe and fastened it to my body, then guided me onto the divan. The ornatrix opened a large casket like a high priest opening some sacred repository. Inside were dozens of tiny little bottles, each one holding a different-color liquid.

“True beauty stored in a hundred phials,” Publia said, brandishing a silver comblike wand. For a second I thought it was a weapon, but she turned it on and it hummed quietly. “Don't fret. This is a calamistrum, the baton with which I shall conduct the transformation of your body.”

“What does it do?”

“Why, it reshapes you. Just subtle alterations.”

“How?” I wanted to know if what she was about to do could be undone.

“A conjurer never reveals her secrets,” she said with a mischievous smile.

“I'm only nineteen.”

“Yes. If you'd started treatment when you were nine or ten, you would look much better now.”

“What I meant was that they're making me do this. Let me tell you right now that if you make any permanent change to me, anything that can't be undone, I will tear this place apart before Barbata can stop me.”

“For a first treatment, the effects are only cosmetic,” she said disdainfully. “You'll need to receive regular treatments for months for the change to be anything resembling permanent. You should be grateful. There are women in here who would give their firstborn child to be on the receiving end of my special treatment.”