IV.

 

 

THE RING OF STEEL striking steel echoed through the training ground. Harsh grunts and sharp yells punctuated the steady rhythm as the gladiators battled, accompanied by the dull thud of wood against wood. Orders bellowed and a whip cracked added to the cacophony, bringing all to a strange sort of symphony, a musical of war.

Exertion stained also the air, sweat and sand and the faint hint of blood. Bordered on one side by our domus and on the other by their barracks, the training ground saw the slaves of the ludus parry and thrust and beat at one another. Those newer to the ludus trained with wooden swords and false shields while the champions waged with those weapons shaped for carnage, steel flashing wicked in the midday sun.

Leaning my forearms against the balustrade of the viewing platform, I watched Marcus battle another of my father's champions, a Greek my father had purchased years ago. Back and forth they sparred, strength and speed behind each move.

The Greek raised his sword, striking fast. Marcus blocked the move and the strength of both gladiators locked the swords together. Face set in concentration, muscles standing in relief, Marcus strained against the force of the Greek. Mouth dry, I ran my gaze over his arms, his shoulders, the play of his back as he pushed against the sword. His loincloth had fallen from his hip, such that he appeared as naked from the side, a thin strip of cloth bisecting his hip the only break in the golden expanse of his flesh.

Raising his shield, Marcus broke the stalemate. The sudden move severed my fascinated gaze and I swallowed to wet my throat as Marcus battered the Greek about his shoulders and head, the heavy blows sure to fell a smaller opponent. With a grunt, the Greek stumbled. Quick though he recovered, and once more set to spar.

As he blocked the Greek's advance, Marcus’s gaze sought mine. Leaning further over the balustrade, I offered him a grin and won for myself a fleeting glimpse of his almost-smile. It seemed to me he kept such an expression for me alone, for it was certain I had never seen him gift it to another. It may be I fooled myself to believe it was for me alone, but what harm was there in such a fiction?

Out of nowhere, the Greek struck. My heart leapt to my throat as Marcus stumbled beneath the blow, scrambling to regain his footing. Quick he shook himself and rushed again to the fray.

Assured he remained unharmed, I settled to my purview. I had not often watched the occupants of my father's ludus at work and what I saw before me now held much excitement. The false combat stirred an exhilaration, a vicarious rush of frenzy. My heart beat faster, the pound of it in my ears, flowing through my veins, my fingers tingling as if I, too, battled on the field. Imagine only if this frenzy I felt were magnified by a thousand like people, all with such borrowed emotion surging through them, enhanced with the knowledge a mortal blow could fall at any moment.

At the thought, I sobered. Death courted a gladiator close. Here, in the practice field, it was rare a gladiator fell. In the arena, it was expected.

I found Marcus again, sparring still with the Greek. True, in the arena death courted a gladiator close and, as of yesterday, Marcus entered again the arena.

Chewing my lip, I watched Marcus. I had heard much of his battle. Disallowed yet again from attendance, I learned the details only through Rachael, who chattered incessant of it this morning. Seated at my desk, I pretended a lack of interest even as every part of me strained to hear her tale, to be reassured he was unharmed.

Rachael described Crassus's introduction in minutia, had told of how his first bout had pitted him as dispenser of the goddess Justitia's sentence upon criminals and fiends. She had said a second, more thrilling bout had seen Crassus battle another gladiator in my father's ludus, and Crassus had brought this gladiator low in a mighty fashion. She had said Crassus was magnificent.

But this was yesterday, when all had seen only the mask of glorious Crassus. Today, I wished only to know how Marcus had fared.

“Do you enjoy the sparring, daughter?”

The light words jerked me from my thoughts, tensed my every muscle, forced my back ramrod straight.

My mother had seen fit to join me.

She moved to stand beside me and I struggled to keep my focus on the field. On Marcus. Beside me, her beringed hands curled loosely around the balustrade. “Lucia? Do you enjoy the sparring?”

I had to answer. Something bland, something that could not be construed with malice or spite. “Yes, mother.”

She laughed, a trill often described as delightful and as musical by those of my father's acquaintance. “So verbose, my daughter.”

To this, I had no answer. She laughed again and settled beside me.

With her arrival, some gladiators broke from their training to cast their gaze to the balcony and I knew it was to admire my mother. Much beauty she possessed, for which my father had wed her as well as her youth. The third of my father's wives, my mother was much younger than her husband and though he was already the father of several offspring, marriage to my mother had brought hopes of another son. Alas, my mother birthed only daughters, twin sisters six years my elder and me. My father could have divorced my mother, as he had done with his previous two wives, but she amused him, I think. In his declining years, it must be a comfort to have such a young, beauteous woman as wife.

I studied her now. Her brows arched delicate over eyes of darkest brown and her pomegranate lips curled into a delighted smile as she pretended not to notice the slaves of her husband's ludus noticing her. Though my hair was the same near-black, hers cascaded over a bared milk-pale shoulder to lay in riotous splendour on her breast. Mine cascaded in a tangle, such I had Rachael pin it back to keep from disturbing my studies.

Adorned in the bracelets and jewels my father had gifted her, clothed in a diaphanous tunic just this side of decent, my mother seemed as Venus in the light. Strange it was, that there was not often more carnage in the training ground when she chose to display herself so.

“They are magnificent, are they not, Lucia?” My mother's fingers twined in the curls at her breast. “I believe your father should be pressed to display them at a gathering soon.”

The best action with my mother was to say nothing. She would twist whatever words uttered to a fashion that amused her and I had long ago learned the best trick for avoiding such. Thus, I said nothing.

A small smile played about her lips. “Maybe it is we should display the one who so fascinates you. Tell me daughter, would you enjoy again seeing him on display?”

I bit my lip and forced the question her words inspired silent. I knew she baited me. I could not allow it expression.

“This time, we would dress him in simply the loincloth of his trade, oil his skin and sheen it with gold. Maybe we could even arrange he fuck one of the slave girls. Would this interest you, Lucia?”

Shock whipped my gaze to hers. Crudity. My mother was not crude. How could she speak such, suggest I would want such a thing? “Mother, I—”

She ignored me, seemingly waiting only for some response before continuing. “Did you see his return to the arena? But of course you did not. Your father and his foibles.” She looked down at the gladiators. At Marcus. “The arena went wild for him, can you imagine? They devoured this new combatant and your father pocketed the wealth their hunger brought. We will have much coin from this one. But you care not for such talk, do you? No, you have care only for him.

“Ask yourself, Lucia. Why is it you yet teach him? Half a year it has been and still you meet, all alone in your little chamber amongst your scrolls and your tales.”

A kind of panic took hold of me, my heart racing, my palms damp. “Father requires he possess knowledge—”

“And this takes half a year?”

I stared at her and did not know what to say. It was true. Marcus and I should no longer meet. I did not know why my father continued to allow it but as long as I said naught, as long as Marcus continued to learn and continued to win, my father would not stop us. He would not wish to tamper with a system yielding favourable results.

My mother, though, had not yet finished. “I find it interesting, how fascinating you find this slave. I have never before seen you take an interest in your father's work and so I asked myself, what then has changed? Is it this slave? Does my daughter find him, what is the word?” She tapped her lip. “Ah, yes. Does she find him enjoyable?”

Speech stolen, I dreaded what next she would say.

“It took scarce a word to keep him with you. Your father does like to indulge me, and in this he did as well. I thought, let us see how this ends and we are still yet at the beginning.” My mother's eyes remained levelled upon me. “You may thank me, Lucia.”

The gladiators on the training field still battled. I could hear the sounds of their training but what had seemed a sort of music now seemed a shriek.

My mother waved a hand. “No matter. The enjoyment you bring is thanks enough. This emotion you bear, it will never be and you know this, do you not, daughter? You know nothing can come of it and it tears at you. Come, my love.” She held out her arms. “Let me offer you comfort.”

I found my voice. “Why are you doing this?”

Her arms still held as if she offered ease, my mother queried, “Doing what?”

“Why are you being so cruel?”

“Cruel?” Her arms dropped. “Cruel would be allowing this fiction to continue. Cruel would be allowing you to believe some joy can come of it. This is all it will ever be, Lucia. Take what joy from it you can but know you live or die at your father's will. At my will. One word, and this tutelage could end.”

Her eyes flickered. “You think me cruel, Lucia, but this is not cruel. Cruel would be forcing you to wed against your inclination. Your father has received some offers, did you know? He is a successful man, and many seek alliance with him through you. Your father could wed you to a sycophant and then you would never see your slave. In truth, it is crueller to allow this to continue. In truth, I should tell your father to stop your meets, should give your slave to the whores clamouring for his flesh. Many have asked of him. Many would fuck him without care for a daughter's infatuation.” She pushed her hair over her shoulder. “You should be grateful I find your emotion diverting.”

Tearing my gaze from her, I looked over the field. Between us fell silence, broken only by the sounds of gladiators as they trained. Fingers curling into the balustrade, I looked past the barracks that housed the slaves into the rooftops of the city beyond and forced myself to feel…nothing. I pushed aside my mother's words, the truths she surely told, and welcomed an emptiness to replace them. It would not last but it would last long enough.

“He has a woman, you know.” It seemed almost as if my mother's voice held pity. “You should ask him of her.”

A woman.

Marcus had a woman.

A great yawn of emptiness, all encompassing, blocking the words, their meaning.

“I tell this to be kind, Lucia. You cannot continue this fascination for a slave.”

Marcus still trained. As I watched, he chanced to look up, offered his almost-smile.

“Lucia?”

I turned from the sight of him. “I bid you good day, mother.”

She considered me a moment before lifting one delicate shoulder. “Of course, my love. Enjoy your scrolls.”

I nodded and I left, one foot before the other, making my way from the balcony to my chamber.

It was there the emptiness broke.

 

***

 

“YOU ARE QUIET.”

I looked up. The frown creasing Marcus’s brow cleared and the almost-smile I had thought reserved only for me curved his lips. “You are quiet, Lucia. It is not often this is so.”

With a shrug, I looked back down, scratching nonsense into the wax tablet.

“Do you not have tales of your day? Has Rachael undertaken some mad adventure?” Frustration tempered his voice, though he forced into it also a note of false cheeriness. “Do you not wish to hear of my time in the arena?”

Scratching nonsense into the wax, I replied, “How was your time in the arena?”

“Enlightening. My thanks for asking.” I could feel him considering me and almost as if I could see I knew a frown had returned. “Something ails you. Maybe it is you will feel ease if you tell me what it is.”

I pressed the stylus almost vicious into the soft wax. How could he lie to me with his interest? How could he trick me with his questions and his concern and his gaze warm upon me?

I knew the truth. Marcus had a woman. A love.

Flakes of wax lifted from the tablet. Vicious, I flicked them away. Of course he had a woman. He was Marcus. Who would not love him? What woman would not desire to capture his heart and secure him for her own?

Even worse, I had heard before of this woman. My father had often told the story of Marcus's capture. My father held much pride he had purchased so fierce a man, a man who decimated a squadron in protection of his woman. He had told how he kept his prized gladiator at heel with threats against his woman, how he forced this slave to greater heights in the arena with the mention of her name.

I had thought it false. Marcus had told me it was false. Exaggeration and misdirection, that was what he had said. I had asked him often and always the same answer. And never, never had he mentioned a woman.

“Lucia?”

“Tell me again the story of your capture.”

He blinked. “My capture?”

Dropping the stylus, I looked at him. “My father tells it often. A hundred slain, a hundred more wounded, and all from your sword. Father claims it is why he purchased you.”

“That fiction? If I could do such, do you believe I would now be seated in these?” He shook his wrists, the chains clanking heavily. “If I had such ability, I should have killed them all and I would still be a free man, and in Thrace.”

“I suppose.” Marcus always claimed it as fiction. Always. Ask, Lucia. “And what of the woman?”

Carefully, he asked, “Woman?”

“She is often mentioned in the tale. She sounds a wonder. A great beauty of Trace, captured with you and for whom you almost died defending.”

He did not answer, not immediate. “I do not like to talk of her,” he finally said.

Pain lanced me, biting and consuming. It was true. All true. “You have never spoken of her.”

Pushing to his feet, he strode to the other side of the room and did not look at me.

Fool that I was, I did not take this as the warning he intended. Instead, I rose also and stood before him. “Who is she?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “This is no concern of yours.”

“Who is she? Is she your…” I pushed aside the pain threatening to consume me. “Is she…”

“Is she my what?” He almost spat the words at me, his fury brought roaring to the surface. “What is it you seek, domina? Do you wish the blood-soaked details of how a man and his woman are captured and though he fights, though he almost kills himself to protect her, still she is torn from him and brought to slavery as he is? Do you wish knowledge of how he becomes gladiator, biding his time so he may be reunited with her once more? How his new master holds such a lure over his head, taunts him with details of her servitude in the domus of the Praetor? Is that what you seek?”

Wrapping my arms about myself, I refused to rise to his bait.

“Or perhaps you seek something other. Perhaps you seek detail of the passion Niobe and I share? Will you consume such tales, as you did those of my family? Is that it? Do you wish to know the particulars of how we fuck?

“Shall I tell you of our nights together, of how we would lick and suck and stroke each other? Do you wish to know of the sounds she makes as I pleasure her, of the expression on her face when she comes?”

My arms tightened.

“Tell me, domina, why do you ask?”

His words rang through the room, lingering long after their utterance.

Avoiding his furious gaze, I mumbled, “You are right. It was foolish of me to question you.”

The chamber filled with the sounds of his harsh breath, the expense of his emotion. I could no longer bear it and so I moved to my desk, sat again behind its barrier and attempted to focus on the scrolls.

“Lucia”

I jumped. Marcus had moved also, now to stand beside me. Keeping my eyes on the tablet, I did not respond.

“Lucia.” He exhaled. “Niobe is a sore subject with me. You can imagine, can you not?”

I stared hard at the tablet. The worst part was I could imagine. He had been ripped from his love and thrust to slavery with no care or concern for him, for her, for them. All this time, he had known she suffered the same fate as he and all this time he had said naught.

I heard him shift stance beside me. “I know you did not ask for the reasons I mentioned.”

Shame closed my throat. I had caused him this pain, the catch in his voice, the anger I had not seen in so long. I had been thoughtless and arrogant, and I should know better.

“Lucia, please. I should not have taken my emotion out on you. Your father's threats, they have naught to do with you. I know your words held curiosity only. Please. Look at me.”

Finally, I raised my gaze to his. Eyes of pale blue implored me, begged forgiveness.

My breath caught. He wanted my forgiveness? “Marcus, I should never have said such things. You are entitled to keep things from me if you wish, and I was a fool to demand otherwise. I am so sorry I have brought you distress.”

His gaze skirted from mine. “You do not have to offer apologies, Lucia.”

I studied him. “Do you miss her?” I finally said.

His gaze returned. “Yes.”

Pain burst sharp and true within me. One word only, and yet one word could destroy. However, this had little to do with me and everything to do with him.

Marcus was a slave. A gladiator in my father's ludus. Owned and paid for by my father and thought of as less than chattel by others though he had a woman and a life, a whole story in Thrace. And it was in this story I could never be a part. In his life, I could never be a part.

The truth crashed upon me. I was his teacher only, a studious girl set to educate him in the myth and legends of his captors. That only was my role and it could never be more. My mother was correct. I felt...emotion for him. And because of this emotion, I wanted him to have what he wanted. The woman he wanted. Though it would kill me, he should have her. He deserved happiness. He deserved respite from his slavery, some small thing he knew untainted by others.

“Do you wish to see her again?”

He appeared startled. I did not blame him. I had startled myself with the question, with the plan forming in my mind. “I know it for an odd question, but do you wish to see her again?”

“Of course.” Exhaling, he rubbed a hand over his head. “I do not see how it is possible.”

“There is always a way.”

He gave me a look eloquent with his disbelief. “How?”

“I can do it.” It would take subterfuge and obfuscation but I could do it. Just because I had never before employed stealth did not mean I had no knowledge of how it was done. I was the daughter of my mother, after all.

“But how?

“Because I can. Do not have care for that. Of more import, do you wish it?”

“Domina…”

“Do you wish it?”

He stared at me, and I could see faint hope begin to burn in his eyes. “I do.”

I nodded, and ignored the pain. “Then it shall be done.”