VIII.

 

 

SCARLET SPRAYED, A VIOLENT burst arcing the sky only to collapse and fall, staining the sand with blood. The felled gladiator collapsed to his knees, one hand to his mangled belly and the other outstretched to beseech an uncaring crowd. His plea futile in a place such as this, a roar rose as finally he toppled, as he lay twitching in the sand. His conqueror stood tall and uttered a triumphant cry, brandishing in victory his bloodied sword and drenched shield. The crowd responded, shouts and jeers and praise and groans, and then it was over, the match won as life rushed from the defeated.

With a sigh, the crowd subsided and prepared to witness the next entertainment.

My husband returned to his seat before me, the whole of his attention still on the arena. These games had seen him expend much, invectives shouted at the challenger, praise bellowed at the champion, and the experience of these last four years made it so I knew this would not be the end of his emotion. Our host, Pontius, turned in his seat and commented on my husband's vigour, a smile on his face as he did so. With wide grin, my husband responded with comments on glory and honour and how the games brought the city both. They laughed and then settled to talk of other things.

I felt sick.

All my life I had been denied observation of the games and only with my marriage did I gain entry to the arena. My husband decreed it asinine his wife had never borne witness to the games, and thus I now attended every match he did. I could only thank providence my view was, most days, obscured by the bodies of others. The sights I did manage to observe were bloody and grim, and more times than not I looked away, unable to stomach the sight.

Our seats, though, held more status than most. My husband had somehow gained an invitation to sit in the pavilion of Pontius, head of one of the leading families in our small town. Closest to the arena, the first row held Pontius and his sons while behind them sat Pontius's wife and her daughters and friends. Yet behind them sat my husband and the others seeking Pontius's favour, though somehow my husband managed to engineer a closer audience with the influential man. And then me.

Eye still trained on the arena, I watched through my obscured view as the fallen were removed and the arena was prepared for the next match. A garishly dressed man struck the corpses with a mallet to ensure there was no longer life, and Mercury’s avatar performed the death ritual, prancing and crowing as though his role were just another entertainment.

Those about me paid no attention to the arena and instead talked idly of the banquet held the previous evening, of the predictions for the following match, of the fine forms of the gladiators and whether they would retain such stamina in the bedchamber.

I could not tear my eyes from the red staining the sand.

These games convened with disturbing regularity in my small town. The Praetor held sway over the games, engaging my father and the gladiators of his ludus for the crowd's entertainment. Sometimes he granted my father favour. Sometimes, my father had leave to speak to the crowd, to decide who would live and who would not. I believe the Praetor thought it a game, to build up my father with a casual assurance of authority only to rip it from him time and again. It did not stop my father from seeking it, nor accepting the honour when it was granted. I wondered if this made my father a fool.

This day, the Praetor had seen fit to grant my father autonomy. This day, the Praetor sat back in his pavilion and smirked as my father dispensed verdict and stirred the crowd. Even from across the arena, the disdain he held for my father was plain.

These games had been bloodier than most. The crowd cheered and shouted for blood as they always did and, in a transparent effort to please the Praetor and gain his favour, my father over and again gave them what they sought. Match after match, my father turned his thumb to the earth, the order for death dispensed as casually as the order for wine. Thus, as my father abused the power given him, one half of each battle was forced to Death's embrace.

My throat closed. One half would die. One half. He would fight these games. He would—

No. I would not think on it. On him. I would think of something else. Something joyous. My daughter. Quick to smile, quicker to laugh. My Aurelia.

Breath eased through me as thoughts of my daughter chased others away. Aurelia had almost three years, and she was my light and my salvation. She laughed at the smallest things, cuddled me whenever she pleased and often we spent the day in play, in games and fancies the nursery slaves had taught me in my childhood. Already she had an affinity with colour and shape, and endlessly she became enthralled with the horses my husband foolishly kept and never used.

Aurelia hung on my every word as I taught her of myth and legend, though I knew my husband did not approve. He did not hold with a woman possessing such knowledge, and certainly did not entertain his daughter should do so. He did not, however, care enough to stop me in my lessons to Aurelia and thus I continued to teach.

Casting my gaze upon my husband, I studied him now. It was not so awful, to be married. My days were much the same, and I was now mistress of my own domus, which I supposed was of benefit. For all it was now my domus, my husband did not hold with an untried girl managing matters of his household and thus the domus remained in the control of his procurator, his trusted slave gifted more worth than the girl his master had married.

Bowing my head, I stared at my hands. I should not be bitter.

My marriage proceeded much as any other. For the most part, my husband occupied himself with his slaves, yet of an occasion he would demand his marital rights. Though slaves had borne numerous of his get, Aurelia was his only legitimate child and with she only a daughter, my husband would not yet abandon me. I resigned myself to his efforts and learned to enjoy them.

Most days I spent occupying myself with the care of Aurelia. Though I knew I should not, when first she had been born, I had told her of Marcus. Great green eyes watched me as I told of his triumphs, of how his fame grew with every opponent he defeated. Of his gentleness, how he laughed sometimes and then seemed surprised by the sound. Of how he would look at me, listening as I told him of the myths and legends I now told her, and how his mouth curved as I related a passage filled with humour. I told of how he would ask me of my day and seem interested when I replied, and how when I asked of his, he told of the training of a gladiator, how sometimes he did not mind it much. When she grew old enough to remember these tales, I had ceased. I was not completely stupid.

It should have worried me, that I remembered him so clearly. I should bring distance between us. I should not think of him by name. And yet, I could not bring myself to remove him from my memory.

A roar rose in the crowd, a roar that spoke of the beginnings of the match. My nails dug into the soft flesh of my hands. I did not want to raise my eyes. He was next, I knew, and I could not watch, I could not—

Courage, Lucia.

Quick, like ripping a plaster from my skin, I looked to the arena. Through my husband and the wives and sons and Pontius himself…I saw him. I saw him.

Bearing tall and head high, he stood unflinching before us. Shield and sword held indifferent at his side, he appeared harsher, all anger and sharp edges. He looked as if any gave him gentleness, if any lay a considerate hand to his brow, he would snap and bite to decimate the hand that dared offer him kindness.

Sudden and sharp, pain struck me. He should not look as he did, though I knew the reason for it. The lack of his love caused this. The beginning of my marriage heralded the end of his love, the meets I arranged no longer possible with my absence.

It must be this lack that brought this harsher man, killing his gentleness and his almost-smile. Was there no way for a softer man to return? Surely there was some way. Surely some could arrange for gentleness, to bring him ease, comfort, anything.

He should not look so.

Eyes intent, he scanned the crowd, returning over and again to the Praetor's pavilion and where my father sat only to then search again. His gaze swept the pavilion of Pontius and relief filled me that he could not see me behind the camouflage of Pontius and his guests.

Surely he had forgotten me. I did not want him to know I had not forgotten him.

Whatever he searched for he did not find, and his gaze returned to fix upon the Praetor's pavilion. Stance stiffening, his face hardened and only now in its absence did I see he still possessed some small gentleness.

A hush fell on the crowd and the silence prompted me to tear my gaze from him. My father had stood and, even from this distance, I could see his exhilaration. My father lived for these moments. I knew his emotion well, had observed it many times when still I lived in his domus.

In sonorous voice, my father spoke. “Good citizens, this day we behold a true marvel. The fight of gods and men will play out before us, in a spray of sand and blood. A champion dreams only of the arena and two such dreamers enter this day. For our pleasure, they will fight. For their glory, they will win!”

The crowd roared. My husband, overcome with zeal, leapt to his feet, expounding loudly his own pleasure at the pronouncement.

I remained seated.

“Behold! The champion of Man! He who destroyed three of Vorenus’s gladiators—”

Here the crowd booed, the mention of a rival town’s lanista enough to bring the loyal shout of disapproval.

My father revelled in this display, holding his hands in apparent rebuke. “Now, Lanista Vorenus does what he can, but who in his stable could rival he who destroyed those gladiators and took the heads of two more. Marvel at his sword, his form, his glory—Bariatus!”

A gladiator, one I had failed to notice in my absorption with his opponent, stepped forward. Arms aloft, muscles bulging, he bellowed at the crowd, his great chest expanding with the effort. The crowd screamed their approval and my husband screamed with them, his eagerness almost obscene.

I only stared. By the gods. He was so big.

My father basked in reflected glory. Finally, he held up his hands and another hush fell, almost painful under the weight of anticipation. “But what is a champion without an opponent, and this day, we have the best of opponents. An avatar of the gods, a man more than mortal. A beloved son of Mars, renowned for his triumph at the games of Senator Meridius where he made men fear and tremble with the slaughter of the most evil of fiends, of the colossus known as the White Gaul. Glory he brought to that arena and glory he will bring again–Crassus!”

Marcus did not react. Indifferent he stood, silent and apart, and did not brandish sword or muster adulation.

This only made the crowd love him more. Raucous, fervent, they bellowed their praise, lapped his presence and craved more. Marcus stood, silent and apart, and did not show reaction.

An almost mad glint lit my father’s face. “They will fight—for pride! For glory! For your pleasure!”

More bellows, more cheers and a woman in the crowd opposite, caught in frenzy, ripped her tunic from her torso, brandishing her breasts and issuing invitation to the gladiators. This sight, common in the arena, drew little attention. Instead, all eyes remained on my father.

Knowing the time was right, my father raised his arm above his head. Then he paused.

All in the arena fell quiet. My husband settled back to his seat, eagerness consuming the handsomeness of his features. Silent beside him, I too stared at the arena though a different emotion consumed me.

Fear. Fear for him, for Marcus. Of a sudden, certainty hit me. This battle would be his last. He would die. This knowledge gouged my nails deeper into the soft flesh of my palms and I did not know how I would bear this certainty. The certainty that I would watch him die.

Still my father stood with arms aloft. He clenched his fists.

All the crowd held breath, a collection that seemed almost audible.

My father’s fists dropped.

With an unearthly roar, Marcus attacked. Startled by this sudden commencement, the gladiator lifted his sword and the sound of steel striking steel echoed through the arena.

The crowd erupted, drowning all. Next to me, my husband once again leapt to his feet, brandishing, screaming, passion for the games spewing from him.

My heart in my throat, I watched and could not make a sound. This was what I hated. This.

By all the gods.

He could die.

Pushing forward, Marcus forced his opponent into a retreat, the gladiator's sword dangling useless from his hand as he stumbled back. Marcus's sword flashed. His opponent blocked the blow with his shield, the solidness of the connection reverberating through me. Never resting, Marcus struck again, and then again. The gladiator pushed back with his shield, his sword lax no longer as he returned the flurry of blows.

My hands ached. Looking down, I saw I had scoured my flesh deep. I stared unblinking at the crescent-shaped marks. Surely there should be blood.

A roar from the crowd and my gaze flew to the arena. The gladiator's sword had broken Marcus's guard. Blood flowed unchecked from his shoulder and streaked his body in red. I gasped, as did the crowd, but it was certain their gasp was not in dismay. In fear.

Marcus paid the gash no mind. Like a possessed man he followed the gladiator, forcing ever greater blows, giving no quarter. I knew the power behind those blows, the training forced upon him. Hour after hour in practice, in combat, building strength and speed, and now it would serve Marcus well, would ensure his victory.

My fingers bit into my palms once more. It would ensure his victory.

Another attack, another advance. The gladiator blocked. Marcus pivoted, forced yet another attack. His opponent fell, landing hard on his back. There was no room for error in the arena. The gladiator raised his shield in an attempt at defence. Visibly dazed, he scurried backwards through the sand.

Marcus stalked him. His own shield held before him, he stood over his opponent. Raising his sword, he granted no quarter. Again and again and again he hacked at the gladiator's shield. Wood and metal spit wild as he sought the gladiator’s skin. Cowering under this frenzy, the gladiator offered pitiful attempts to dissuade such a violent attack, but the result was already decided.

Beaten, broken, the gladiator did not defend himself when Marcus kicked the shield from his grip. Great breaths shook Marcus's frame as he stared down at the gladiator. As he poised for a killing blow.

My father stood. The crowd fell silent. Marcus looked up, dazed. Even from my obscured seat I could see the wild frenzy in his gaze.

Finally, he looked to my father. For the longest moment, Marcus and my father stared at one another, Marcus still poised to strike.

A small smile played over my father's lips. Extending his arm, he held his clenched fist horizontal.

All the arena held breath. All awaited his pronouncement.

Slowly, his wrist rotated. Slowly, his thumb pointed down.

The crowd erupted. Through the tumult, I had concern only for Marcus. He stared at my father, every muscle tense. And he did not strike the killing blow.

I looked to my father. He smiled still but there was something beneath his smile, something ugly.

And still Marcus did not strike.

The crowd’s jubilation turned to displeasure as the blood they sought was denied them. Boos sounded, and hisses and jeers, and they yelled invectives as they sought to denigrate the great Crassus name.

And still Marcus did not strike.

A different fear assaulted me, my heart pounding and my breath strangled. Why was he doing this? Why was he defying his lanista? He would be punished, harsh and long, for such insolence.

My father’s smile died.

Oh, sweet mercy. Strike, Marcus, and defy my father no more. You will only do yourself harm and I…I could not bear it.

Gaze still locked with my father's, Marcus stood poised over the fallen gladiator. And then he did strike. He did as my father bade.

He slew the gladiator.

The crowd exploded, jubilation and blood lust making a frenzied chant of his false name.

My gaze stayed with Marcus. He stood in the centre of the arena, at the centre of attention, and appeared…apart. He did not listen to the crowd. He did not glory in the praise. He only remained, with his sword and shield held loose at his side, and waited. His gaze searched the arena once more and a fleeting kind of longing softened his face. Quick he caught himself and hardened, becoming granite and stone.

My father sermonised, something about honour and glory and how Crassus surely was the greatest champion to have ever lived. I had no care for what he said. Why would this not end? Marcus had done as he had wanted, had fought and killed and should now be allowed to depart. Instead, the crowd’s wishes were the only considered and Marcus stood with blood streaming from his shoulder and his face set to stone and was allowed no respite from the terrible act he had been forced to perform.

By the gods. I hated this sport.

Unable to bear any more, I turned from the sight. But for my husband, I would not be here. I would not be reminded, over and again, of the softness I held for a slave. I would not be ripped asunder by each blow to him, as if the sword rent my flesh as well as his. My heart would not be torn, over and again, as he searched the crowd for the love who was not there.

Pain tore through me. I could not keep doing this. I could not keep him in my life, even in such a small way. I had to stop. I had to cease coming to the games, cease the remembrance of him, just…cease. I must never think of him, and never by name. If I did think of him, he would be only the slave I used to teach. That, and that alone.

My husband settled once again to his seat and as he looked at me, his expression turned from exhilaration to disgust. Dismissing me, he turned and weaselled his way into the conversation Pontius held with his eldest son. Quickly I was forgotten and he immersed himself in his schemes for power. My lack of interest in this sport disappointed him, and I knew he thought me an unnatural wife, weak and foolish.

Staring ahead, seeing nothing, I passed my thumb over the broken flesh of my palm over and again. Let my husband believe as he wished. Let him think I did not enjoy the games because I was weak. I did not dare tell him the truth. I was not completely stupid.

Only stupid enough to love a man who had surely forgotten me.