III.

 

 

“DOMINA, YOU DO REALISE these tales contradict each other?”

Brows snapping together, I scanned the parchment. “They do not.”

Marcus leaned toward me, bracing his forearms against the table. The chains he still wore clunked heavy against the desk. “They do.”

Annoyed, I looked up. A naked chest and broad shoulders filled my vision, power and strength looming over me. Brief fear filled me but then, just as quick, fled as I realised his intent. He meant to intimidate me with such an action. Only look at the imbecilic amusement dancing in his eyes, even as he kept his features impassive.

Scowling, I returned to the scroll, considering that rather than him. A tale of Bacchus’s twin birth, there was nothing out of place, no contradiction contained within. The scroll was as I had read a hundred times before, as I had been told as a girl, as hundreds of others were told as children.

I looked back to him. “There is no contradiction.”

Devils danced in his eyes. “There is.”

“You speak false.”

“Are you certain, domina? Maybe it is you should look closer. As it stands, I am certain you have examined that scroll only a hundred times. Maybe upon this, the hundred and first, you will discern the error.” No expression and yet those pale eyes gleamed.

Comprehension dawned. “You jest.”

“I?” He attempted innocence. He did not achieve success.

Certainty settled upon me. “You do jest.”

Folding his arms before his chest as much as his chains would allow, an expression almost a smile flirted with his mouth. “You are a most interesting shade of red, Lucia.”

Ignoring that my cheeks surely burned brighter at his words, I ducked my head and refused to meet his devilish gaze. Marcus had grown freer with his speech, such that now he spoke often with impunity, and I could not determine if this was a good thing. On occasion, I longed for the days when he was taciturn and silent though I suppose, if I were forced, I would admit I liked when he teased.

Since our lessons had begun, Marcus had not again entered the arena. For five months he spent his days only in training, battling others in my father's ludus but not joining them in the glory of the arena. Sometimes he lamented such, talking almost bitter of his relegation to stable and hearth. Often times he seemed almost on edge, as if bundled with an energy only dissipated through true combat.

Further, every week my father asked me what Marcus had learned and every week I gave answer but never what he sought. My father awaited something, some knowledge I had not yet given Marcus. Some days I wished I knew the lack but then, if I answered correct, I would no longer teach Marcus.

I knew a little of my father’s plan only in that whispers had begun, whispers of a new gladiator, a gladiator of strength and cunning the likes of which had never before been seen. Born of gods and slayers of kings, this new gladiator, called Crassus, would soon enter the arena. Soon all would marvel in his skill and his glory.

My father, the master of overstatement.

Marcus was to bear this appellation, be this Crassus. None knew his true name, save me, and this played well with my father’s plans, the gladiator known only by the name of a legend. In rumours of Crassus my father sought frenzy, a state slowly forming as whispers became speech and speech became shouts.

Already Marcus as Crassus endured displays at feasts and gatherings, painted in gold and bearing a mask made of the same. Allowed to attend, I watched from behind my wine as he stood before my mother and father's acquaintances, as they marvelled and sighed over him, as they questioned his prowess and some—the more depraved—the length of his cock. Often questioned, often challenged, he gave his answers reluctant but always correct. In these moments, my father looked to me in praise and those attendees tittered and marvelled as if Marcus were a beast miraculously possessed of knowledge and speech.

I did not much like these gatherings.

Soon, Marcus would enter the arena. My father made no wealth with Marcus seated in the ludus and when Marcus returned to the arena, he would no longer require tutelage. It could be soon our lessons would end.

“The Greek first told that.”

Disturbed my thoughts, distracted by them, I said, “The Greek told what?”

Marcus gestured at the scroll. “That tale, only they call him Dionysus.”

“You are not correct. This tale has always been of Rome.”

Folding his arms, he raised his brows and in his silence spoke eloquent.

“It is of Rome,” I insisted. “How could it be anything but of Rome? Bacchus–”

“Dionysus.”

I glared. “Bacchus is a member of our pantheon. You give disservice to the gods by claiming otherwise.”

“The Greek claimed him first. Rome stole the tale.”

“That is not true. You do not know of which you speak.”

He snorted. “As I have only travelled farther and seen more of the empire, you are, of course, correct. Tell me, have you yet left this town?”

Looking back to the scroll, I ignored him and his smirk.

“Domina? Have you? Have you yet left Astana?”

Fingers digging into my desk, I struggled to remain silent.

“Domina? Can you not remember if you have left this town?”

“Silence!” Anger consumed me, such that tears stung my eyes. “Do not talk to me as if I am a child! What are you but an ignorant slave?”

Shock bled the amusement from his expression and now he stared at me, his jaw clenched and his eyes hard.

The words hung between us. My heart pounded, so I could hear nothing save its frantic rhythm and when I took breath, it shuddered through me. How could he say such? How? My life was built around stories and scripture, our stories, our scripture. The newer gods we may have appropriated but the pantheon, the originals, they were ours. Jupiter and Juno and Neptune and Venus, all were my life's work. How dare he lessen it?

“I do not wish to fight,” he said finally, carefully. “I only ask you hold the possibility Rome takes what is not theirs.”

I crossed my arms. “All take what is not theirs.”

“Yes,” he said.

Finally, I realised what he meant. Minerva make me wise, he meant him. He meant his slavery. He meant he was stolen from his people, from his freedom.

“Lucia, you are young—”

I glared and ignored the lingering sickness in my stomach his words had brought. “You are not so much older than I.”

“You are young,” he said. “And you have yet to see the world. Allow the possibility all may not be as it seems.”

“Only if you hold the possibility that you do not know everything of me and my life.”

He scowled. “Lucia—”

“You do not, Marcus.”

“And you do not know the world.”

I shrugged.

Exhaling, he considered me. “We will not agree, will we?”

I shrugged again.

“Are you ever again to answer with speech?”

A reluctant smile tugging at my lips, I shrugged once more.

He exhaled but this time his exhalation seemed deeper, as if he exaggerated it. A smile tugged harder at me and I allowed it fullness.

Seeing such, he allowed his own almost-smile to emerge. “We should talk of other things, yes?”

“Yes.” I looked down at the scrolls. “Maybe a tale of fair Juno?”

He snorted. “A female deity?”

A scowl snapped my brows together. “They are just as important as the males.”

“I know, domina. It is only I do not think I will be called upon to embody one.”

“You never know,” I replied loftily. “In any event, you should know.”

“Ah, well, by all means. Proceed.”

Still scowling at his high-handedness, I started to read the tale aloud and I could not think of a time previous when I had enjoyed myself more.

 

***

 

“WHY ARE YOU UNWED?”

My smile died. An hour had passed in amiable discussion and yet, with four words, Marcus rendered me mute. Why would he ask such a thing? And, of more import, what to say?

A furrow creased Marcus's brow as he awaited my response. I must answer. “None has yet asked.”

Incredulity deepened his frown. “None?”

Dropping my gaze, I played with the scroll, threading the parchment through nervous fingers. “If they have, my father has not seen fit to inform me.”

“And you are the last of your siblings?”

Still I heard his incredulity. “Yes. The youngest.”

“And you are how old now?”

I knew of my failing. I did not have need of his questions and his disbelief to remember it. “In half a year, I will be seventeen winters.”

To this, he said naught and silence fell, a silence I felt compelled to fill. “I am too studious, I know. My sisters were wed at fourteen or younger. It is shameful, how old I am and yet unwed.”

“Domina—”

“My mother often despairs, wishing she had produced a normal child. My sisters are all from a different mother, you understand, and she holds me responsible for the discontent my father has displayed. I should be more social and I should be pleasant and alluring at outings and feasts and—”

“Lucia.”

The sound of my name stopped my babble and as I looked up, I found Marcus's gaze upon me. “Do not be concerned of such things. My middle sister had nineteen summers when she wed, my eldest, almost eighteen. They both were not half as interesting as you.”

“I am interesting?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Of course you are. Do you think I come to your chamber for my health?”

Worried he told falsehood to placate me, I said, “You come because you will be whipped if not.”

A snort exploded from him. “That is as nothing to a strong, mighty warrior, such as myself.”

“Oh.” He was kind, to give me such words, but the last I knew were influenced by his peculiar arrogance as much as his concern for me. Of a sudden, I realised what he had said. “You have sisters?”

Exhaling, he looked as if he wished he could sever his tongue from his body.

Lucia. Remain silent. He should not have to tell you. “Do you have other family?”

Still he did not answer, instead contemplating the wall beyond my shoulder.

I wrapped my arms about myself, holding myself tight. He would not tell me and I had no leave to ask. I sought the worst kind of intrusion, a glimpse into his past, and what was I but the daughter of his lanista, the daughter of his owner.

“Yes.”

Stark, the word hung between us.

“Yes, I have family.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Five sisters. Two brothers. A mother. A father. Assorted other relatives. All back in Thrace.”

I remained still a moment. “You miss them?”

“Yes.” His features lacked expression but he spoke. I felt gratitude he would give me such. “Even if my sisters did specialise in stealth and attack.”

His sisters were warriors? “Oh?”

“They often saw fit to ambush me and wrestle me to the ground.”

Confusion filled me. “Your sisters could best you?”

“Of course. Terrors they are, each and every one. And they coordinated.”

Suspicion grew in me. Face impassive, he met my gaze.

Oh. Oh! I knew it! “You are jesting!”

His expression gave no indication as to the correctness of my statement. “Jest? I?”

I grinned, laughter bubbling inside me. “Were your sisters warriors?”

“No, they were just devious.” Giving up his pretence, he studied me. “You truly wish to hear of them?”

“Of course.” Settling with one hand held in the other, I looked to him, expectant. “And your brothers. Tell me.”

“Do not demand, domina. It is unattractive.”

I poked out my tongue and almost startled a laugh from him. Quick, though, we settled to his tales and his voice wrapped around me, painting a picture of the years of his growing.

Definite it was, that I had not enjoyed a time previous more.