Mistress of Rome (32 page)

“What’s your name?” Sabina ventured.

“Vix.” He looked down at the little silken presence at his elbow. “Vercingetorix, actually, but that’s kind of a mouthful.”

“After the Gallic chieftain?” Sabina glanced at Marcus. Just last week her tutors had reviewed Vercingetorix in their account of Gaul’s conquest.

“He was my father.” Bragging.

“He died over a hundred years ago.”

“He was my grandfather,” Vix amended.

“You really ran all the way from
Brundisium
?”

“Yeah, I used to belong to this old guy, but he died, and I didn’t want to go to the slave market.”

Sabina’s eyes widened. Vix expanded under her gaze.

“It was rough getting out of Brundisium. I stole a chariot, right? And the driver comes after me with a whip—”

Marcus looked at the two children: his daughter; tiny, quiet, clean, and pearled, and the slave boy, filthy, foul-mouthed, grinning, and mendacious.
Dear gods
, he thought.
My daughter’s made a friend.

I
UGULA!”
Lepida shouted down at a gladiator begging mercy, her eager profile flushed pink, and for a horrid moment I had a feeling that I should be standing at her back with a peacock-feather fan. A wave of sickness caught at my throat.

Lepida settled back, fanning herself pleasantly as blood spurted on the sand. “Still no taste for the games, Thea?”

In the arena a Moroccan was beheading a Gaul. “No,” I said. “I’m merely bored.” Closing my eyes.

“Bored? But it’s so thrilling!” All around us in the stands people were on their feet, waving, shouting, shrieking. Flavia’s two sons were fascinated. Domitian watched with an expert’s detached eye. Paulinus’s gaze wandered restlessly, looking anywhere but at Lepida. His hand rested on her armrest, a bare half inch from hers as if afraid she’d burn him.

Paulinus and Lepida? Nothing shocked me anymore. Poor Paulinus.

Poor Gaul. Dragged off flopping by his heels.

“Well!” Lepida ate a stuffed grape leaf, sucking her pretty fingers. “I can’t wait to see what’s next. What
is
next, Paulinus?” She traced his wrist with a scarlet-lacquered nail, and he jerked. “Oh, of course. The Barbarian.” She smiled at me.

I stretched my mouth into a blind smile. “And how is your husband, Lady Lepida? Shouldn’t you be sitting with him?” Words tumbled off my lips, any words. “Don’t tell me you’ve run through his money already.”

Lepida opened her mouth, but then there was a flutter of orange silk and a jangle of gold bracelets as Flavia rose. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “I feel quite faint—the heat—you’ll excuse me, Uncle? Boys, be good—” She disappeared.

“Do you feel all right, Thea?” Lepida’s soft, solicitous tones. “You don’t look at all well. Perhaps you should go home, too. Hmmm—where
is
your home, these days?”

“The palace.” I had the pleasure of watching her face tighten and prepared a cutting little speech, but it died in my throat. Because the crowd’s murmuring rose to a roar, and for the first time in a week the agony of worry for my son was drowned out as his father strode out onto the sand.

Arius.

I didn’t realize my lips were silently shaping his name over and over, not until Ganymede touched my shoulder and made an inquiring noise. I smiled jerkily at him, but couldn’t take my eyes off the gladiator who had once been my lover—passing so close to the Imperial box that I could count the scars on his back.

Dwarfed by that vast space, just as I remembered. Deaf to the applause, just as I remembered. More lines in the set brown mask of his face. But still tall and unstooped. Still refusing to strut or smile. Still beautiful.

God, he was so beautiful.

He didn’t bow to the Emperor. Just jerked his head in a gesture reminding me abruptly of Vix. Then he turned away and lifted his sword, and I felt the old iron hand clamp around my lungs.

He fought a Thracian. The face was a blur in my eyes. All I could see was a pair of wicked little Thracian swords flashing in the sun and I couldn’t breathe, especially when a curved blade clipped into Arius’s leg and came out covered in blood. But then somehow one of those wicked curved swords went flying and Arius came forward in a fluid lunge. He fought more calmly now, his movements more connected, the arc of his blade more controlled. The Thracian fell screaming with a half-severed foot, speedily finished off with a thrust through the heart. I went through the motions of clapping.

“What a bore,” Lepida pouted. “If he’d lose just once—”

Arius yanked off his helmet, raking his fingers through his hair and through my heart, too. He tossed his sword over to the arena guard, strode forward, and jerked his head at the Emperor again. Domitian, playing dice and playing mind games with two courtiers, wasn’t even paying attention to the arena. But Arius paused, drawing out an odd moment, and Domitian looked at him. I saw the tension in the back of the Emperor’s neck and remembered:
Even my wife’s afraid under that marble face of hers. But you aren’t. You and one other—you know who? He’s not even a human being. Just a slave, another animal like you. A gladiator; the one they call the Barbarian.

At last Arius tore his eyes away and turned toward the Gate of Life. I’d forgotten the exact dip and sway of his shoulders. Imagine forgetting that.

The murmurs in the stands changed to laughter as a trapdoor opened in the arena floor, and a tiny black-bearded figure skipped out. A dwarf, dressed like a miniature Arius. A comic performer. I didn’t think I could ever laugh again.

Arius stopped a moment, bending his head toward the dwarf. He grinned at some joke, and my insides melted like a candle. So he’d found a friend. He needed friends.

He slapped the dwarf’s shoulder, setting off again for the Gate of Life. But just as I began to relax, four arena guards stepped down and seized Arius. Another trapdoor opened in the floor and out came a half dozen green-kilted Brigantians with swords in hand.

 

 

 

WHILE
the midday executions had been dragging on, the slave boy had been engrossed in telling Sabina about his adventures on the way to Rome, which apparently featured flying horses, three-headed dogs, and a gang of forty thieves. As soon as the Barbarian appeared, Marcus noticed, the boy fell raptly silent.

“Whoa. Oh, whoa.” Sitting back with a whistle when the fight was done. “Whoa.”

“What?” Sabina craned her neck. Marcus nudged her back, below the rail. She was too young to see anything that arena had to offer. She didn’t seem to mind, though; her eyes were round as saucers from the slave boy’s fibs, and she hardly seemed to hear the arena’s racket of screams and clashes.

“The Barbarian.” Vix sounded awed. “I knew he was the best, but he’s even best-er than I ever thought. He’s a
god
.”

“He is very good,” Marcus found himself agreeing. “I always make sure he has a fight after the Senate imposes a new tax. He calms the mob down for weeks.”

Sabina blinked. “Who’s the Barbarian?”

“Where’d you grow up?” Vix looked down at her. “In a box?”

“I’m not allowed to go to the games, usually. I have epilepsia,” she explained, “and excitement isn’t good for me.”

“I never knew anybody with epilepsia.” He eyed Sabina with more interest. “’Cept Julius Caesar, but I guess I didn’t really
know
him. Y’know gladiator’s blood’ll cure it? I should give you some of my blood. I’m gonna be a gladiator, too, y’know.”

Her eyes widened again. “Are not.”

“Are too.” The boy aimed a thrust at the wall with an imaginary sword. “I’ll be even better than the Barbarian.”

“You’ll get in trouble.”

“You get in trouble no matter what you do,” Vix said sagely, “so you might as well do everything you can.”

A philosopher
, Marcus thought. What an appalling child. And Sabina looked entranced.

“Hey, they’re opening the trapdoor.” Vix leaned forward over the rail. “What’s next?”

 

 

 

WHAT—”
Arius twisted as the guards grabbed hold of his arms. “My fight’s done.”

“We’ve got orders,” one of the guards said shortly. “If you know what’s good for you, hold still.”

They wrenched him around, two holding each side, and he saw a trapdoor open in the sand to disgorge a half-dozen green-kilted boys from Brigantia. Fanning out, swords held wide, toward a puzzled Hercules.

“No.” Too late, Arius began to struggle.

Hercules looked around, confused. His comic act came next: “Arius the Barbarian mowing down the heathen,” the heathen being played by twenty peacocks. But there were no peacocks in sight . . . just a half-dozen boys with their swords out.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

The comic wooden sword dropped from his fingers.

He ran.

They fell on him.

 

 

 

THE
boys fanned out into a circle, and Arius saw Hercules stagger. Run for an opening. Go down in a welter of rising and falling sword hilts.

From a long way away he heard himself cursing, felt himself wrenching at the guards. A blow fell across the back of his head and he went to his knees.

Panting and sobbing, Hercules wriggled free. Dashed for escape on his short legs. A howl of laughter went up from the stands as he made a great scrambling leap and tried to climb the wall.

They pulled him down.

Arius got an arm free and crashed his fist into the face of one of the guards. A shield boss clubbed down on Arius’s shoulders, and he ate sand.

Hercules was screaming.

Arius erupted off the ground and took a guard around the knees. He clawed his hands up to the man’s belt, and got his dagger.

Hercules was screaming his name.

Arius found a gap in the armor and stabbed. Blood pattered on his face. He rolled off the body, surged to his feet, and took a great lurching leap before three guards hit him from behind and he went down again.

For a moment his eyes got clear of sand and saw Hercules’ face. A white oval pressed into the ground, two blind eyes filled with blood, a smeared mouth opening in a black howl.

Arius felt his mouth opening, his whole body cracking, and somewhere inside his head he howled back. A long unending scream consumed him, a dreadful backdrop to the thuds of the sword hilts against Hercules’ body as the Brigantian boys leisurely beat him to death.

His vision went black as the demon reared its head and screamed.

They gave him his sword and let him go.

“Well,” Marcus said mildly. “This is interesting.” Beside him the slave boy hung open-mouthed on the rail.

Arius fell to his knees when they released him. The sword dropped from his hands.

Kill them
, howled the demon, but it seemed very far away.

Couldn’t breathe. He ripped off his helmet, flung it aside. His fingers curled in on themselves.

Kill them
, whimpered the demon. He could imagine Gallus smiling, settling back in his chair. “That should bring out the old Barbarian,” he would be saying happily. “Enjoy the show!”

Arius rocked back on his heels. The Brigantians gazed, panting, swords wavering in damp hands.

Arius spread his arms. His hands were bleeding from where the nails had dug in, but he felt nothing. “Kill me.”

They stared at him.

“Kill me,” he roared. “Kill me, you bastards!”

His voice echoed around the death-silent Colosseum. He flowed to his feet and took a ferocious step forward, spreading his bared hands. “Kill me!”

Muttering, forking the sign of the evil eye at him, they backed away.

I
N the Imperial box we were frozen like statues: me with my hands pressed to my mouth to keep from screaming; Lepida with a handful of sweets halfway to her lips; Paulinus open-mouthed; the Empress shedding her usual calm to look surprised; Flavia’s sons frozen in fascination.

Then Domitian erupted out of his chair.
“Iugula,”
he shouted as loudly as Arius, and turned his thumb in the sign for death.

A scream strangled in my throat as the Brigantians circled in. But Arius turned, his empty hands spread wide.

“Who’s first?” he asked, his voice blasting us all. “Who’ll take the first hack at the Barbarian?”

Their eyes flickered. They licked their lips. They looked at each other.

“Kill me!” He took a wavering sword blade and pressed it against his own throat. “Do it.”

The boy dropped his sword.

Arius turned on the others like a lion, and five swords hit the sand. A half-dozen boys in the prime of strength backed away, their faces white as a senator’s toga, as a single aging gladiator bore them slowly down with his eyes.

Then he began to laugh. He flung his head back and roared laughter up at the sky. He jumped lightly at the Brigantian boys, and they backed away shivering, rings of white showing around their eyes.

He turned his back on them and advanced on the Emperor—the Emperor, standing rigid at the front of the Imperial box.

“Care to take a crack, Caesar?” Arius shouted, spreading his arms. “You blood-sucking Flavian whore.”

 

WHOA,”
said Vix. “That was stupid. He’s in trouble now—” “What?” Sabina rose from her stool, craning her eyes. “What’s all the noise? What’s—”

“I think it’s time we left, Vibia Sabina.” Marcus scooped her up, gesturing to the steward. All around, the crowd stood utterly silent, transfixed by the scornful gladiator. Dear Fortuna, what would the plebs make of this?

“What about Vix?” Sabina peered over Marcus’s shoulder as he carried her out. “We left him behind.”

“He’ll be safe.” Marcus had no desire to see what the Emperor would do to the Barbarian, and no desire for his daughter to see it, either. “Cling tight, Sabina.”