Curses and Smoke (8 page)

S
he hadn’t planned on kissing him. It had seemed, in the moment, like a way to show defiance, a way to take control. Her first kiss would
not
be from the old man her father had chosen for her, but from a beautiful boy
she
selected.

But when he touched her — when they kissed — all thought disappeared, leaving only sensation — warm, wet, soft, tingling all the way down her spine. He’d blotted out the sun as he leaned over her, and then he blotted everything else out too.

He pulled away. She stared dumbfounded at his full mouth.
Why had he stopped?
She angled her mouth up to his again, but he stepped back. “
Domina
,” he said, his voice low and husky.

“Don’t call me that,” she breathed.

“What are we doing?”

She blinked. “If you don’t know, then we must be doing it wrong.”

The side of his mouth quirked, and he shook his head slightly as if trying to clear it. Gods, he was so beautiful — a young flushed Apollo, god of light and beauty, with untamed curls, whose lips tasted like wine and honey. She wanted to press her face against his neck and drink him in — his scent of woods, herbs, and smoke.

“Your father would crucify me….”

“He never has to know.”

He drew in a ragged breath as she pressed herself against him, her mouth soft on his throat. His arms wrapped around her and he pulled her even tighter, breathing her in too.

Minos barked in sudden outrage, and they jumped away from each other. But the dog was turned away from them, hair up, tail stiff. Lucia recognized the bark — he was warning someone off.

“I need to get back … in case Metrodona is wondering where I am,” she whispered. “In case she sent someone looking for me.”

He nodded, swallowed. “I’ll stay out here to draw whoever it is away if they keep coming in this direction.”

She turned, then hesitated, not wanting to leave. “Will you … get in trouble if you are discovered?”

He shook his head. “I’ll say I was …” Looking around, he plucked a leaf and scooped the spider onto it. Then with one quick swipe, he destroyed the large web and rolled it together to form a small mass of threads. “I’ll say I was collecting spiderwebs. We never have enough to deal with all the cuts we see.”

She remembered reading in Pliny that cobwebs moistened with oil and vinegar were useful in treating cranial fractures. Was it true? There was no time to ask.

“Go,” he mouthed.

She gave him a quick peck on his beautiful mouth and sprinted toward the opening in the wall.

*  *  *

The next morning, Lucia sat in the shade of Cornelia’s sumptuous gardens. Trees rustled in the breeze as water tinkled from the clamshell-shaped fountain beside them.

She stared at the glimmering drops of water, thinking over and over again,
I kissed him. I kissed Tag!
Remembering the feel of him — reliving every moment — left her constantly wondering when she could touch him again.

“Lucia, where are you?” Cornelia called in a singsong trill.

Lucia flushed. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you really do not want children,” Cornelia repeated as they sorted through the pile of baby clothes between them on the marble bench. Antyllus’s mother had passed them on, and there was enough there to clothe an army of babies. Cornelia held up one stained but soft baby wrap. “Oh! Antyllus must have worn this!” She pressed it to her bosom.

Lucia smiled at her friend. “That is adorable. And yes, I do want children eventually. But not with Vitulus.”

Cornelia made a sympathetic noise. “Still, once you have a child, it will all be worth it.”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” Lucia muttered.

“Flavia is our age and already on her second child,” Cornelia pointed out. “You should see how sweet her baby is. She seems very happy.”

Lucia considered sharing her fears about her mother’s experiences with stillbirths. What if the shades that cursed her mother in the birthing chamber now followed
her
? But she didn’t want to remind Cornelia about the dangers she faced, so she shrugged instead. “I have a question for you,” she said, rubbing her palm over a soft blanket decorated with faded threads of ocean waves and wide-eyed fish.

“Hmmm?”

“What is the difference between physical attraction and … between lust and something … else?”

Cornelia dropped the baby tunic she’d been holding and gaped at her friend. “What?” She laughed. “Are you in love with someone? Goddess, who with?”

“I’m not in love with anyone,” Lucia said. Obsessed, however, was another matter. Either way, she would never tell her friend it was Tag. As children, Cornelia had often joined her and Tag in games in the woods when her parents visited. She couldn’t very well say she was longing for a slave, could she? “And that’s what I’m trying to figure out — how do you know when it’s just … you know, physical attraction rather than something deeper?”

Cornelia gestured for her servants to leave the room. When they were alone, she leaned forward. “Tell me everything. You’re not actually … I mean, you are still a virgin, yes?”

Lucia’s face flushed as she nodded. “All we’ve done is kiss.”

“He must be an amazing kisser.”

Lucia slapped her friend’s shoulder with the baby blanket. “It’s just that I find myself thinking about him all the time. I am constantly trying to figure out how to be alone with him again.”

Cornelia grinned. “You little
lasciva
, you!” Then her eyes widened. “It’s not a gladiator, is it? Ugh, those men are such brutes. Though one can’t deny some of them are quite attractive — in a feral kind of way. But really, you would never stoop so low!”

“He is not a gladiator.”

“Good.”

“How did you know you loved Antyllus?”

Cornelia sighed and rubbed the sides of her belly. “Well, my heart raced every time I was near him. I dreamt about him, about his touch. I longed for his company and missed him terribly when I didn’t see him.”

“How is that different than … than, you know, lust?” Lucia persisted.

Cornelia giggled. “I don’t know! I’ve only ever loved Antyllus. But my guess is that it’s probably just lust, because you barely know him.”

“No —” she began, then stopped herself. She
did
know Tag. They had their shared childhood and their wooded retreat. He wasn’t a stranger to her.

“Even if you feel like you know him,” cautioned Cornelia, reading her expression, “you are betrothed to be married. You cannot take the risk of pursuing anything more with this man. You know that, right?”

Lucia nodded miserably.

Cornelia put a hand over hers. “But I understand how anyone would be better than old man Vitulus,” she continued. “Is this man of yours someone of means? Perhaps he can speak with your father about changing your betrothal —”

Lucia laughed bitterly. “No. He is not a man of means. Vitulus’s wealth is what Father is after.” With a moan, she added, “And I only have a matter of weeks.”

Cornelia huffed. “I’ve said this before, but I still don’t see why your father couldn’t find a rich man here in Pompeii. Why does he have to marry you to someone who lives all the way in Rome? I wish Antyllus had a brother so that we could live like sisters.”

They both stared at the pile of soft baby clothing.

“You’re really not going to tell me who your amazing kisser is? I’d tell you.”

“You don’t know him,” Lucia repeated. “And it’s best I don’t mention his name.”

“I’ll get it out of you eventually,” Cornelia said, returning to sorting. After a few moments of silence, she added, “Is it that patrician who is staying with you?”

Lucia shook her head emphatically.

“Still, he is an option, is he not? You told me yourself that he brags about his family’s wealth. Perhaps you can try to get
him
to fall in love with you.”

“Quintus? I wouldn’t have any idea how to get a man to fall in love with me.”

“Just flirt.”

Lucia gave her a disbelieving look. “That may come naturally to you, but not to me. Besides, I think the arrangement Father has brokered with Vitulus makes it highly unlikely that anyone else could compete.”

Cornelia’s eyes glittered with mischief. “Still, you should try. He’s got to be better than old Vitulus. Then you would be free of him and you could stay here in Pompeii —”

“He lives in Herculaneum.”

“Close enough. Our children would grow up together. Oh, please consider it!”

Lucia shook her head. “Cornelia, are you not listening? A man of his patrician status would never marry someone like me.”

“Not necessarily. It happens more and more these days. And since he is the fifth son, maybe his family won’t care whom he marries.”

“Oh, thanks a lot!”

“You know what I mean. But I think it’s true. The family probably doesn’t have that much riding on his alliances. You may have a chance.”

“But that sounds so cold and calculating.”

“It’s not any more calculating or cold than what your father is doing.”

Lucia didn’t know what to say to that. They continued going through the clothes in silence.

“Any word from Pliny?” Lucia asked after a while. “I would still love to talk to the man.”

Cornelia shook her head. “It doesn’t look good.”

“Why?”

She shrugged, not meeting Lucia’s eyes. “Antyllus is not very encouraging.”

“Oh, please push him! We are running out of time.”

“All right, I will try again.” She put down the blanket she was holding. “I wonder if Antyllus knows your patrician.”

“He is not
my
patrician.”

“Well, I’m hoping soon he will be. What is his name again?”

“Quintus Rutilius,” Lucia said. “Cornelia, I don’t like that look in your eyes.”

“What look? I’m just going to ask my husband if he knows him. You should not underestimate the power of connections, my dear. Antyllus may be able to help here.”

“I’d rather he helped with the Plinys, please.”

“Either way, you know you have to stop seeing the amazing kisser. You can’t risk a scandal. Now, what you do
after
you’re married is up to you.”

“Cornelia!”

“I’m just being realistic. But really, I think you need to stop seeing him and start working on Quintus.”

Stop seeing Tag? She’d only
just
kissed him. The very idea of never doing so again left her feeling hollow.

Cornelia must have read her thoughts because she leaned toward Lucia and said, “Your only focus must be on finding an alternative to marrying Vitulus and staying in Pompeii near me. This is your
home
.”

Lucia’s shoulders slumped. Cornelia reached over and squeezed her hand. “Have faith. It will all work out in the end,” she said. “We will be together forever in Pompeii. I just know it.”

T
ag realized he’d lost count yet again of the dried coriander seeds and, with an irritated huff, swept the piles together to start over. All day, he’d been trying to bring his attention to heel, without much success. His mind constantly turned to thoughts of being out in the woods with Lucia, of the feel of her body pressed against his, of the honey taste of her mouth, of the warm softness of her skin.

“Healer.” Someone tugged on his tunic. “Healer. Healer. Healer.”

“What?”

“Look!” Castor pointed outside, where Tag could see men running toward the sandpit.

“Is somebody injured?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but I hear yelling,” the boy said.

Tag rushed outside with his surgical box under his arm. He’d learned early from his father that having scalpels and clamps on hand could mean the difference between life and death if a gladiator was bleeding heavily.

“Where’s Pontius?” he asked as he caught up to a gladiator running toward the increasingly large knot of men.

“Dunno. Saw him leave with Titurius a while ago,” the man said.

Tag wondered whom Pontius had left in charge. He hoped it was someone the men respected, because whatever was brewing didn’t look good. A knot of sweating, nearly naked gladiators encircled a pair of fighters. Taunts, insults, and laughter roiled around the men. Two gladiators fighting outside the sparring ring was likely to end in serious injury or even death, enraging the master. Tag decided the best way to calm the situation was to play dumb.

“The
medicus
is here!” he called out, pushing through the knot of men. “Tell me who is injured. Make way. Make way for the healer.” If violence had a smell, he thought, this was it — an almost visible miasma of male sweat, aggression, fear, and blood.

To his surprise, he found Quintus in the center, being taunted by a red-faced, stocky fighter from Iberia named Hamilcar. Tag looked around for the overseer in charge. His stomach knotted to see Pontius’s second laughing along with the rest of the men.

“Who is injured?” Tag repeated, pretending he still did not understand what was happening.

“The better question is who is about to get
more
injured,” the Iberian growled in heavily accented Latin. He pushed his finger into Quintus’s chest. “And this pasty little flower here is about to get a taste of what
real
gladiators do.”

Blood trickled down the side of Quintus’s head. His eyes were wide with panic. Tag locked gazes with the overseer in charge, silently appealing for the man to step in and stop Hamilcar. But the man only grinned at him, showing brown teeth.

“This man is under Titurius’s special protection,” Tag tried.

Some of the men laughed. “So?” Hamilcar taunted. “The master is not here. And if I break his jaw, this little worm won’t be able to speak my name.”

Tag moved in closer to the two men. “Look, you don’t want to —” he began.

Hamilcar seized Quintus’s wrist and, with lightning speed, twisted two fingers as if he was intending to break them. Quintus hissed, trying to lean into the direction of the twist to take the edge off the pain. “And if he tries to identify me,” Hamilcar said, “I will break
all
his fingers.”

Again, Tag looked toward the overseer in charge. The man crossed his arms.

“Come on, healer boy,” one of the men called out. “You know he deserves this.”

“Oh, I agree, he deserves it,” Tag replied. “And I’d be the first in line to crack him in the head a time or two …”

Some of the men chuckled.

“But,” he added, louder, “I’ve already had one whipping recently, and I’m not interested in another one. And even if this
mundus excrementi
does not identify you, Hamilcar, we will
all
get whipped for not stopping you. Am I right, Titus?” He stared at the man in charge, who had stopped smiling.

Everyone knew it was true. Some of the men began muttering and moving their feet. “He ain’t worth another whipping,” someone called out.

“The boy is right,” said a deep voice from behind them. Tag turned. The men had broken the circle for their
primus palus
, the house champion, the long-haired German Sigdag. “Let that weasel go, Hamilcar. We all know you could kill him with one blow. Where is the honor in that?”

More mumbling as men began moving away.

“Come, let us spar, Hamilcar,” Sigdag continued. “Fight a real man and not a little girl.”

Choruses of “Yes, yes, let’s see that” increased as Hamilcar turned his attention to the big German. Tag grabbed Quintus’s arm and steered him rapidly across the sand toward the treatment room.

Once inside the dark room, Quintus began to shake.

“Sit,” Tag commanded, pointing to a squat three-legged stool. Quintus just stared at it. Tag took him by the arm again, led him to it, and pushed him down by the shoulders. The sounds of laughter and wooden swords thumping against one another drifted into the room.

Tag poured Quintus a cup of medicinal wine, barely cutting it with water. “Here,” he said, thrusting it into the man’s face. “Drink.”

Quintus drained it in one gulp.

“What in Pluto’s name happened out there?” Tag asked.

“I only asked him if he felt shamed about being a fighting slave when he carried the noble name of Hannibal’s father.”

Tag closed his eyes, momentarily awed by the man’s sheer stupidity. “Where is your injury?”

Quintus pointed to a cut on the edge of his hairline. Tag mopped it up with a vinegar solution, then applied a thin coating of honey and goose fat as gently as he could on the gash. Once the cut was cleaned, he swabbed at the blood on Quintus’s neck and chest, checking for abrasions the fool may not have realized he’d gotten. He could feel the patrician staring at him as he worked.

“That was … that was very brave of you to help me,” Quintus said.

Tag nodded, guessing that was as close as the blue blood was ever going to get to actually thanking him for saving him from the mob of infuriated gladiators.

“I wish I could have you by my side for protection whenever I’m around those animals,” he added.

Tag did not respond as he checked the bones of Quintus’s fingers and hands.

When he was done, he noticed the patrician still watching him. “With all due respect,” Tag said, “I suggest you keep your mouth shut around the others.”

As he began to turn away, Quintus grabbed his wrist. “Were you telling the truth? Would you have wanted to beat me too?” He suddenly looked very young.

Tag knew he should lie, as all good slaves must to survive — to tell him, “
Of course not, I was just trying to gain the men’s trust
” — but, for some reason, he just couldn’t. He held his tongue.

Quintus released his wrist, his cheeks flushing. “One day I will find a way to make you see me differently.” He stood and stalked out of the room.

*  *  *

“Tages!” Pontius called the next day as he stepped into the medical room, stooping under the lintel.

“Someone hurt?” Tag asked, jumping up.

Pontius waved him back down when Castor jumped in front of Tag as if defending him, waving a pretend shield and sword. “Beware! I will slay you like a sausage!”

Pontius grinned at the child and said, “Terrible stance, boy. Go get me some fresh honey water from the kitchen and maybe later I’ll show you how to do it right.”

Castor flew out of the room, grinning. When the child was gone, Pontius turned to Tag. “Remember when ye asked if ye could train to be a gladiator?”

Tag froze. “Yes …”

“Well,
Dominus
is allowing it.”

“What? How?” He grinned. Were the gods finally seeing fit to give him the chance to win his freedom?

“There is, however, one catch,” the overseer said.

Tag’s smile disappeared. “And what would that be?”

“I need ye to train alongside Quintus. He is a disaster. The master wants him to feel like he is getting a gladiatorial experience, but I can barely keep the men from tearing him to pieces every time he opens his mouth.”

Tag stared at him. “You cannot be serious!”

Pontius sighed. “I can’t let Quintus train or spar with anyone else. Him always lording himself over everyone … Everyone wants to slit his throat before they even step into the sandpit. And since the master has made ‘special arrangements’ with the man, I need to pair him with somebody who won’t kill him.”

“Wonderful. I am pleased to hear how much confidence you have in my fighting instincts.”

“Yer fighting ways are probably just fine. I’m sure ye could kill him without much effort. But yer a healer. So I know I can count on you
not
to kill ’im.”

“In other words, you’re asking me to babysit him.”

“Yep. And by the way, it was his idea.”

“Quintus’s?” Tag asked incredulously.

Pontius nodded.

Tag groaned. “But I despise the man.”

“Welcome to the brotherhood. But now pay attention.” The overseer leaned in and lowered his voice. “This is yer opening. Show some skill and I just might be able to convince
Dominus
to let ye continue when that perfumed pig leaves.”

Tag nodded.

“But yer first priority is to make sure that Quintus doesn’t get himself killed by some hothead who won’t stand for his insults — which I’ve heard ye already have some experience with. The rest we’ll see about. So anytime yer not needed to treat anyone, you’ll be out with the rest of us
brutes
, as he calls us.”

“Thank you, Pontius.”

A grin emerged from the Samnite’s mass of black beard. “We’ll see if yer still grateful after I put ye through yer paces.”