I.

 

 

A GLADIATOR OF MY father’s ludus stood in the middle of my chamber.

Confused, I halted in the doorway. In my rush to obey my father’s summons, I had not entered the wrong chamber, had I? No, there was my desk, littered with the scrolls of my study and just the same as I had left it. The wax tablet I used for note-taking lay haphazard beside the ink employed for more permanent musings, while the oil lamp I had foolishly neglected to extinguish burned merrily at its side. The weaving one of my sisters no longer desired hung on one wall, and the mosaic I had commissioned in my fifteenth year decorated another.

Rachael was absent, but then she would have her own business to attend this hour. Though she was my personal servant–my personal slave, if I spoke in truth–Rachael's will was a force with which I could not contend. She most like was in the markets, visiting with the grocer’s slave, a boy of her faith named Jacob.

Why then did this slave, a gladiator of my father’s school, stand straight and silent within my chamber?

“Lucia! Stop lurking in the doorway like a fool and enter!”

I jumped at the harsh words, ground out with little patience. My heart twice its normal rhythm, I looked to find my father stood off-side of the slave, his brow creased in furious scowl. Hastening to obey, I entered the room, avoiding the slave as I edged past him.

The slave did not react.

Stopping before my father, I adopted a hesitant smile and hoped such would placate any irritation he might entertain. “You wished to see me, Father?”

He did not respond, instead grasping me by upper arm. The force of his grip caused me to stumble behind him as he tugged me forward but quickly I righted myself. My father did not like a clumsy child.

Positioned as he wanted, he forced my attention to the slave. “What do you see?”

Concealing my wince, I glanced but quick. “Father, I do not—”

His fingers bit into my arm. “Do not perform a cursory exam, Lucia. Hold, and take time.”

As I desired use of my arm in the future, I did as my father bade.

Tall and overly proud, the slave stared straight, his face holding no expression. Clothed only in the loincloth all gladiators in my father’s ludus must wear, the expanse of his flesh gleamed with the fine oil all of his kind donned before being presented to their owner, their lanista. Training corded his body with muscle, made his shoulders wide and chest deep, though still he possessed a leanness defiant of such heavy training. Short dark curls clung tight to his skull and his skin, browned by the sun, bore the marks of his slavery. Other gladiators wore similar wounds, displaying the cut of a sword, the mark of a mace.

This slave bore also a bruise on one cheek, the lash of a whip on his back, marks which spoke eloquent of defiance and dissent. Of most surprise, he was young, not much older than I. With shoulders back and hands clenched before him, his stance screamed of arrogance, making him appear older at first glance and almost disguising that his hands were shackled by chains.

I returned my gaze to his face. From what Rachael had told, he was new to the ludus, new even to slavery. Always Rachael chattered, and all her chatter of late had been of the new additions to the ludus. This slave, with his defiance and with his skill, had featured heavily and I knew tales of his capture, of how he fought in defence of himself and a woman. I knew also tales of his first day in the ludus, his first bout in the arena, and all had been wild and vastly improbable.

His face, though, should there not be emotion upon it? How could he stand and show no flicker of expression?

“Come, Lucia, you must have an opinion.” My father grew impatient, his words clipped and his demeanour wanting. “What do you see before you?”

All I could think was the obvious. “A slave in your ludus, sir. A gladiator.”

My father's breath exploded. “I thought it so. A gladiator only, it is true. I have need of him to be more.” Scowl furious, he regarded the slave.

Knowing better than to disrupt my father at contemplation, I allowed my thoughts instead to wander to a new scroll arrived only that morning. This new parchment promised a tale of the goddess Postverta, one I had never before encountered. The merchant had sworn to Rachael, on the life of his most like non-existent children, that its equal had never before been encountered and never would again. I did not know the validity of such a claim but I did know I had not seen this version of the tale before, in that the merchant spoke truth. It could be said the tale—

“What do you know of him?”

The sudden words set me to jump. “Father?”

“The slave, girl. Where is your mind?”

“Apologies, father.” I glanced at the slave, then quickly away. “I do not know much.”

The furrow in his brow deepened. “Come, girl, you must know something.”

What could I say? “Rachael says—”

“Rachael.” Disgust filled his tone and expression. “That slave is too free with you.”

“Rachael says,” I continued, pretending I heard him not. “This gladiator is strong and fast, and much admired by the crowd. She said he has two matches and in both he claimed victory with ease. She said he was entertaining.”

My father's eyes, green as my own, moved to the gladiator. “Entertaining. And you see naught more?” He rubbed his chin. “But then, you have not seen him work. Never do you observe.”

Observe? Oh, the ludus. The gladiators as they trained. “I—”

My father waved his hand. “It is of no matter.”

“But Father—”

“Silence! I have need to think.” My father moved again to study the slave, as if in that impassive mien he would find the answer he sought.

Crossing my arms, I tried to keep my discord from expression. How could my father be irritated at my lack of attendance when it was he who disallowed it? I did not even know why it was so. Other daughters attended the games but it seemed in all things I was to be apart and different.

“You have need to make him more.”

It seemed today my father was determined to shroud his words in obliqueness and mystery. “Father?”

Paying me no heed, my father instead continued his contemplation of his new gladiator, circling him now for good measure. The slave stood silent under such perusal, his gaze ever forward.

Finally, my father spoke. “This gladiator needs to be something no one expects, no one finds in any other. Such distinction brings prominence and the councilmen of Astana are always appreciative of prominence. This one also could bring wealth, and I would have us wealthier than any other ludus.” His gaze impaled me. “You shall do this, daughter. Make him more. Educate him. Make him a legend.”

Speech deserted me. I was to…to… For the glory of his ludus? My father had sons to carry the legacy of his father, and his father before. Granted, his sons lived far from our domus, and none seemed to hold interest in the games save as spectator, but surely they could be called upon for this purpose? I knew my father wished greater accolades for his ludus. Though he held much fame in our small town, Astana had not the size nor the prestige of larger cities and my father desired more. On occasion, and when my father had imbibed too much wine, I had heard him speak of that most highest of echelons, of the honour of Rome.

My father exhaled, impatient. “Teach this slave of our legends, Lucia. It is how you spend your time, is it not, or have you been false all these years?”

I shook my head. “Father, of course not. I—”

“Make him comprehend more than whatever barbaric notions fill his head,” my father interrupted. “Educate him as to the glory of Rome, of her empire and her myths. Tell him of our gods and make of him an avatar, a conduit to a higher power. Do you understand?”

My gaze darted to the slave. Still and statue-like he stood. Was he feeble? Did he not comprehend our conversation? It was possible he did not speak our tongue but surely he had some—

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Sickness assaulted me, sudden and swift. He did comprehend. Not a statue, not an uncomprehending simpleton, but a man like any other. A man whose future was discussed and decided before him.

Pressing a hand to my stomach, I fought the sickness. Before I had felt this, but I ignored it always. Slaves served in our domus, trained in the ludus, delivered fruit and goods and toiled in the fields. It was accepted. I accepted it. It was the way of things and I—

Did not wish to think on it.

In haste, I turned my attention to my father. “How can I do this, father? More than an understanding of our gods is required, surely.”

“I care not of the how, only that is done.” Steel and purpose, his gaze forced all his will upon me. “Do not fail me in this, girl. I would have some use of you.”

I averted my gaze. Useless, in that I was not yet wed. Just turned sixteen winters and I had no suitors, no prospects, no way to extend my father’s wealth.

“You will begin now.” My father waved a hand toward my desk. “Use whatever it is you do, Lucia, but know I will not tolerate failure.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will give you a week before assessing your progress. You will have results by then.”

A week? A week only?

My father grabbed my chin. “Answer, Lucia.”

Wincing, I raised my gaze to his.

The fingers dug into my flesh tightened as his eyes bored into me. “Lucia,” my father said, and there was a warning in his tone.

With difficulty, I swallowed. “Yes, father.”

His gaze searched mine and whatever he found reassured him. “Good.” He released me. “There will be guards posted outside this door at all times. I expect results.” His gaze shifted. “You.”

My jaw ached as my father moved to address the slave. “You will heed my daughter and learn from her. You will be punished if you do not.”

The slave did not respond immediate but then, soft, “Yes, Lanista.”

I drew in sharp breath. Flavoured with a slight accent, his voice seemed incongruous with his appearance, deep and soft and…young.

Again, sickness assailed me.

My father's hand clapped heavy upon my shoulder. “Do not fail me, daughter.”

Without meeting his gaze, I nodded and remained still as he grunted his approval and then left the chamber. Left me alone with a slave.

Pressing my hand to my stomach, I stared at the door through which my father had exited. I was to teach a slave. I. My father's useless youngest daughter. He must have run mad. Almost sixty years he had, and at such an age surely a man turned to insanity. This had to be a jest. Soon my father would return, take the slave from my chamber and laugh at the look on my face. Surely that was all this was.

My father did not return.

Rubbing my arm, I took breath and turned. The slave yet stood in the middle of my chamber, his eyes ahead and his posture still.

I forced myself to take a step toward him, and then another, and then I stood before him. By the gods, he was tall, and bigger, so much bigger. His hands, they could crush me, the muscles of his arm screaming of his strength. He could rush at me, he was trained for such, and I would be broken before any could stop him.

Why would my father do this to me?

My voice, when it came, betrayed my fear. “I—I am Lucia. I shall be teaching you. Do you…” I swallowed and tried again. “Do you know much of our legends?”

No response.

My fingers shook as I tucked an errant almost-black curl behind my ear. “Yes. Well. If you do not know, we should start with Saturn. He was once ruler of the gods and their father. He—” Taking a breath that shook, I gestured. “Will you come to my desk?”

A flicker of expression, quickly gone. He complied with my request, the clink of the chains he bore loud in the silence of my chamber. Once he reached position, he stood with gaze ever forward and waited.

Hesitant, I moved also to the desk and slid in to my chair. I fussed with the scrolls under the pretence of finding the right one, though I could quote the story and pantheon by heart.

These lessons would bear disaster. I knew it already.

Selecting a scroll at random, I unfurled it and pretended to read. “Saturn was the ruler of the gods, before he passed his authority to his son. Jupiter is brother to Neptune, God of the seas, Pluto, God of the underworld, and brother-husband to Juno...” The slave had to know this. Even the smallest of children knew this. “Please. Tell me if you know of this.”

Moments passed. He did not respond. Finally, he shifted his gaze to me.

I recoiled. Beneath the impassivity, beneath the mask, such rage seethed.

Quick his eyes shuttered, and he once again wore an impassive mask.

I could not forget as quick. I should not have drawn his attention. The anger, the fury. My gaze flicked to his arms, his chest, his hands. He could break me. So easily.

Nerves ran my words together. “Jupiter is wed to Juno and their union produced four children, Vulcan, Mars, Juventas and Lucina, and they…they…”

Still he stared straight ahead, with not a flicker of expression, and was silent.

This would bear disaster. I knew it already.