Mistress of Rome

  I breathed in the smell of his hair, the exact texture of his skin. Took him whole inside me. Murmured, finally, a prayer.

  “God keep you safe.”

  And I slept.

  Seven

  THEA

  ONE against six!” Lepida fanned herself prettily with one hand. “I can’t wait. Goodness, when will they finish off those zebras so we can get to the fun part?”

  My hands shook as I poured her wine. Distantly I heard the crowd roaring, the snap of the whips from the arena, the animal screams. The Agonalia games, celebrating the double-faced god Janus who ushered in every new year. A wild beast hunt raged in the arena below, striped zebras being hunted by teams of spearmen. But the zebras were just a prelude to the big show: Arius the Barbarian pitted against six Spaniards.

  One against six, I screamed inside. One against six!

  Lepida had talked her father into it. “I know it’s against the rules,” she’d cooed. “But what a fight it will be! The crowds adore desperation.”

  “Beat them.” I’d seized my lover’s face between my hands that night, hearing my voice rising and hating it. “Promise me you’ll live. Promise!”

  He held me hard, made love to me fiercely, but he didn’t promise. Too wise for that. After three months with him, I should have been too wise to ask.

  “Thea, hurry up with that wine.”

  I passed the goblet over with cold fingers. In the arena the dead beasts had been raked away, and the midday executions were briskly progressing. Preparation for Arius and the Spaniards. I reached under my tunic for the faded ribbon I’d strung about my neck that morning. Hanging from it were a dozen charms and medallions, spelled to ward away violent death. Purchased from old crones and astrologers, witches and fortune-tellers, to buy my lover his life.

  Dimly I heard the voice of the games announcer: “. . . bring to you . . . champions of Lusitania . . . the SPANISH SAVAGES!”

  Out they charged to a surge of applause: six sleek and vicious fighters, swords glittering in the sun, purple plumes nodding, bowing and waving and strutting for the crowd. Their breath puffed white in the cold.

  So many. God, so many.

  “. . . and now . . . wilds of Brigantia . . . undefeated champion . . . ARIUS THE BARBARIAN!”

  They’d given him a little platform to fight on, something to even the odds, and he sprang up on it hefting his shield. Utterly calm, indifferent to the wild cheers raining down on his head, indifferent to the cold. But so small next to that terrible horde of Spaniards. So terribly mortal. I thought of Vercingetorix the Invincible, who hadn’t been so invincible after all because he’d died in the arena like an animal.

  The starting trumpet blared. The Spaniards swarmed up the sides of the platform. As one the crowd in the stands surged forward, shouting encouragement. My heart dropped into my stomach like a stone.

  He cut down the first two as they got to the top of their little ladders. But there were two more clambering over the other sides, and their blades rushed to meet his with a bite of iron.

  The Colosseum was on its feet shrieking, and so was I. Once I would have felt pity for the Spaniards, who wanted to stay alive just as badly as Arius, but love had made me vicious and I just wanted them dead. Arius hewed a Spaniard’s sword arm off at the elbow, and in the midst of all my terror for his life I felt a rush of fierce pride in his skill.

  He whirled and slashed, unable to move three feet on that tiny square of space, but still cutting them down on four sides. The crowd settled back in their seats to place bets, the odds dropping. Just when I began to breathe again, it happened.

  Such a little thing. He ducked a wild swing of a curved blade, and for a bare moment lost his footing. Teetered.

  Fell.

  He landed squarely on his back, only a few feet down, but I could see the breath go from him in a rip. I saw his lips skin back as he gulped a convulsive breath, already raising his blade, and then the Spaniards were on him. Three Spaniards delirious with triumph, their bright weapons raised—and even so he managed to stab one through the knee before disappearing from sight.

  I heard Lepida’s fidgeting cease abruptly. I heard Quintus Pollio set down his goblet. I heard every spectator in the Colosseum inhale.

  I dropped the flagon, feeling the wine splash across my feet as I leaped forward, falling against the marble railing and marshaling all the power in my lungs.

  “MITTE!” I shrieked, and every Roman within a hundred yards turned their heads. “MITTE, MITTE, MITTE!” Let him live. Oh, God, let him live.

  And because it was a fine afternoon and the games had been very good that day and the Barbarian really had fought splendidly, other voices joined mine. “Mitte! Mitte! Mitte!”

  When I saw a bruised and bloody Arius drag himself grimly to his feet, my own limbs gave out underneath me and I hit the ground. Roaring filled my ears and something granite-cold cracked open inside me, melting like ice in the rain.

  “Thea? Thea, whatever is the matter with you?”

  I looked up dizzily. My mistress’s face was a pale irritated oval. “Sorry, my lady.”

  “Screaming in public—a slave never speaks unless spoken to.” Her sharp-toed sandal prodded my side. “Get up.”

  I levered myself up, clinging to the railing. The blood roared so loud in my ears that when Lepida poked at the ribbon around my neck I could only look at her vaguely.

  “Well, well, what’s this? Charms, Thea? So many of them, too. Whatever for?” She turned over a copper amulet inscribed in Latin on the back. “ ‘Warding away the bite of all weapons and blades.’ And ‘Invoking the protection of Mars against violent death.’ Goodness, I don’t beat you that hard.”

  “My tavernkeeper,” I muttered, collecting my scattered wits. “He’s gone to the legions—I just want him to be safe—”

  She waved me back, sinking back into the cushions of her chair as Arius limped out leaning on a spear and the Spaniards took their bows. She sulked as the arena attendants raked the sand, fidgeting and tapping her gold-sandaled foot against the floor, and finally announced she had a headache and it was too cold to sit outside and she was going home at once, and I didn’t even listen to her pouting because all I could think of was Arius.

  I trailed her home, changed her dress for a robe, fanned her and massaged her scalp and fetched her barley water and waited in agony until she dismissed me, and then I ran all the way to Mars Street. “Arius,” I panted to the pretty slave boy who opened the door. “Arius.” It was the only word left in my brain.

  “I’m sorry, he’s not—wait!”

  Arius sat, shoulders slumped and head drooping, in the middle of the infirmary, filthy with dust and bleeding in half a dozen places. He held a wad of rags against an oozing slash on the back of his neck while the barracks doctor fussed around him and Gallus scowled over a writing tablet. A dozen fighters lounged, watching with curiosity or downright satisfaction as the defeated Barbarian was patched back together.

  I must have made some sound, because he glanced up. I saw the mess of cuts and bruises the Spaniards had made of his face and all my precarious calm shriveled away. I fell across the room, meeting him halfway, and turned my face against his ripped shoulder when the tears flooded my eyes.

  Dimly I heard him slap the doctors away, snarl an obscenity over my head at Gallus, and heave the wad of rags at the snickering gladiators. He couldn’t quite pick me up—pain hissed through his teeth when he tried—but he lifted me until my feet skimmed the ground and retreated into his little unlighted cell. Then he just held me, rocking me quietly in the cold dark while I clutched him and sobbed with all the hysteria I’d promised myself I’d never show him.

  “Are you all right?” I mumbled at last against his chest.

  “Just bruised.”

  “Liar.” I took his hand in mine, kissed the two splinted fingers, ran my palms over the purple bruises that marked his arms and shoulders, felt him wince as I touched his side where the ribs had been bro
ken. “What will Gallus do now?”

  “Throw me back in. Prove I haven’t lost the edge.”

  “You have lost the edge. It’s me. I make you soft.”

  “Sssshhhhh.”

  “Games,” I said, feeling the hysterical thread swell inside me again. “Games and games and more games—never-ending games—” My voice cracked.

  He kissed me long and desperately, and I swayed against him in the dark, hopelessly loving the hard curve of his skull under his hair, the strong arc of his neck, the strength of his arms. “You lost today,” I whispered. “You’ll lose again, no matter how good you are.”

  “Stop, Thea.”

  The ragged cry ripped out of my throat. “I’m going to lose you, and you tell me to STOP?”

  “No.” He gripped me hard, pulling my head against his shoulder. “I’ll live. I’ll get a rudius.”

  “It’s been years since an Emperor’s given the rudius—”

  “He’ll give one to me. I’ll give him a fight to knock his eyes out. Then we’ll leave, get out of here—”

  “I’m a slave. I can’t go with you.”

  “I’ll buy you.” His voice was a low rush in my ear. “My prizes—enough to buy you three times over. Then when I get out of the arena—”

  “You’ll never get out. You’ll die first—”

  “I won’t.” He tangled his hands in my hair. “Thea, I promise. I’ll live, and we’ll get out of Rome. Find ourselves a mountain in Brigantia—”

  How long did he talk, telling me about the house we would build, the children we would raise, the cool sweet air we would breathe for the next fifty years? I don’t know. But he had never talked so long before, and underneath the harsh grate of his voice I heard for the first time the indefinable rhythms of his native language. And I wanted it: the green mountain, the half-dozen strong and russet-haired children, the sweet Brigantian air no Roman had ever breathed. And I wanted Arius. Arius old, with gray hair and no fresh scars.

  “Hold me,” I said, and his arms locked around my waist, soldering our bodies together until it was dawn.

  DON’T dawdle, Thea. We have a thousand errands to run.” Lepida tapped the side of the litter, addressing the bearers sharply. “The Forum Romanum.”

  Her bearers, six matched blond Gauls, heaved the litter up onto their shoulders and set off into the morning crowd. I fell into step behind, humming under my breath. The winter air was sharp and cold, and the shouts of the vendors carried easily from street to street. Now that Lepida was safely in front of me, I let out the smile I’d been smothering all morning.

  He’s going to buy me. I’ll be free. The freshest of the knife scars on my wrists had faded to clean pink lines, and I was happy. I didn’t even realize I was singing until Lepida poked her head out of her litter and snapped at me.

  “Stop that warbling, Thea.” Tapping the side of the litter, so the bearers lowered her to the ground. She pushed back her emerald green palla, blue eyes scanning the crowd. “Wherever can he be?”

  “Are you meeting someone, my lady?” A handsome young aedile or dashing tribune, perhaps? Yes, she would meet a man in the middle of the forum in broad daylight, with her marriage to Marcus Norbanus only a few weeks away.

  She sent me to buy a little bag of candied fruit from a vendor before the Temple of Jupiter, and I wondered happily if Arius was arguing now with Gallus, persuading him to buy me. Gallus would moan and complain of course, but he wanted to keep his star fighter happy . . .

  My mistress was deep in conversation—with a man, of course. No handsome aedile or dashing tribune; just a middle-aged man with a bald head and a coarse-grained toga. Business then; not pleasure. I wiped my smile away for later, and bobbed a silent curtsy as I handed over the candied fruits.

  My surprise, when the bald man reached up and squeezed my hip, was total.

  “This one?” he asked Lepida in a harsh, common-accented voice. “No beauty.”

  “Perhaps not, but she’s got a good strong back. Isn’t that more important in your line of work?”

  My eyes flew up to Lepida’s. “My lady?”

  She picked through the candied fruits, still addressing the bald man. “And she’s literate, you know. In Greek as well as Latin.”

  “Don’t expect me to pay extra, Domina. Letters are no good to a whore. How old is she?”

  “Fifteen. But experienced, I assure you.”

  “No!” Words tumbled frantically out of my mouth. “My lady—I’ve served you well! Whatever I did, I’ll never do it again, I promise. What did I do?”

  Lepida’s cool voice overrode me. “When she couldn’t get customers, she serviced the gladiators for free. You see why I have to get rid of her.”

  “Maybe.” A shrewd glance. “But you can’t dispose of her, Domina. She’s your father’s to sell, not yours.”

  “My father never interferes with my doings. And besides, I’ll give you a very good price for her. Say two thousand sesterces?”

  “Done.” He dropped a purse into my mistress’s sugary palm.

  I whirled and ran. Right into one of Lepida’s litter-bearers, who wrapped my elbows in heavy hands and wrestled me down to the ground.

  “No! No no no—”

  “Be careful with her.” Lepida tossed aside the purse that had bought my life. “She’s a sly one. Half a chance and she’ll slip the noose.”

  “Oh, I’ve been handling these girls for years.” A flat palm stung my cheek. “Quiet, girl, or I’ll have you whipped. Understand?”

  Arius. Arius, where are you?

  Just a few tenement blocks away, in his room on Mars Street. Dreaming of our mountain.

  “You won’t be selling her here in the city?” Lepida’s voice again, dim through the blood that pounded in my ears. “I’ll not have her embarrassing me here in Rome.”

  No. No. He’ll come, Arius will come and he’ll kill them all—he promised me—

  “I do my business down south. Ostia, Brundisium, the port cities. Waterfront brothels pay well for Roman whores.”

  “Good.” For the first time Lepida turned her gaze on me. “Well, Thea, I told you I wouldn’t put up with it. Sneaking out of the house to carry on with gladiators—”

  “You had me followed,” I said hoarsely.

  “Hardly. Just peeked out my window at dawn a few nights ago to see if you’d come back from your mysterious all-night errand. And there you appeared! Such a passionate farewell, too . . . I already had my suspicions, of course. Especially after that charming display at the games. When I saw all those magic charms of yours . . . Not very clever, dear.”

  The Gaul who held my elbows loosened one hand to scratch his cheek. I wrenched an arm free and hit my former mistress a savage blow across the face. One blow, before the bald man’s hand shot out to seize my hair and snap my head back so hard the tears sprung to my eyes. “You didn’t tell me she was vicious,” he objected.

  “No matter.” Lepida climbed back into her litter, my handprint scarlet across her cheek. I saw her pull out her little gold hand mirror and examine her face coolly. “She’s your responsibility now.” The silk curtains dropped shut, hiding her from view.

  “Stand up, girl.” The bald man frowned. “Can you understand me?” Ostia. Brundisium. Port cities, waterfront brothels, unwashed men. Just six hours ago I’d lain in Arius’s arms and dreamed that nothing could ever hurt me again.

  I made another despairing lunge toward Mars Street, and was wrestled down to the ground. I drew breath to beg and got a mouthful of dust. Sandaled feet stepped around me in the street: a party of tribunes enjoying a good laugh, matrons drawing their skirts aside, slaves who looked away before they could catch my bad luck.

  My new owner surveyed me clinically. “Better put the chains on her,” he rapped out to the big servant at his back.

  They locked the manacles around my scarred wrists. I turned my face away and howled into the earth like a dying animal.

  BUY her?” Gallus paused, lifting hi
s pen from his account slates. “Dear boy, you don’t have to buy her. You’ve been getting what you want without that, haven’t you? Why buy a cow when—”

  “My prize money would buy her three times over.”

  “Your prize money? Dear boy, who does the managing around here? Who does the organizing, the planning, the marketing?”

  “Who does the dying?”

  “But you’re not dead, are you?” Gallus tapped soft fingers on a rouged cheek. “Well, you have been quite well behaved lately. I suppose you deserve a reward. Win your next fight, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  “Done.”

  Arius waited by the garden gate that night, but Thea didn’t come. Well, she wasn’t always able to get away from that ferret of a mistress. The bed seemed very empty without her. He missed the warmth of her body curled inside his, her fingers laced through his, her hair falling over his arm. He smiled, and it no longer felt unnatural.

  He sparred the next afternoon with the trainer, then sat back to watch the beginners hack and slash at each other. “Keep your feet planted,” he called out to an Oriental boy with a trident. “Here, let me show you—” and found himself drilling them, as his brothers had drilled him. As he would drill his sons someday, his and Thea’s.

  “Barbarian,” one of Gallus’s pretty slave boys piped from the shade. “Your lady’s here.”

  Arius sent the practice sword thudding point-down into the sand and swung into the corridor. He pushed open the door to his little cell, grinned to see her standing at the narrow window slit with her hood still drawn up over her face. “Thea, are you—”

  He stopped.

  “So sorry,” said Lepida Pollia, turning and pushing the hood off her high-piled black hair. “Thea couldn’t come.”