The patricians were praying. Cal stood at the edge of the atrium and watched them out of the corner of his eye. They had gathered around the pool to honour Vesta, the one goddess in the Roman pantheon without an earthly form. At the far end of the pool, the governor’s wife stood behind Vesta’s flaming hearth. She lifted a bowl of pigs’ blood to the heavens.
‘We offer you this sacrifice, Sacred Vesta...’
Pitiable pig. Its death squeal had nearly shattered Cal’s ears. Soon it would be dressed and cooked and would be basking in the dining room surrounded by exotic fruits.
He wondered how his own corpse would look in such a display. The thought might have been laughable, if he were not a gladiator considering whether to defy a Roman governor. If he indulged Arria’s wish, there was a chance they would be discovered together and a distinct possibility of leaving this banquet with his head on a spike.
Not that he would mind. He would gladly give his head for one last night with her. It was her head for which he feared. It was much prettier and more intelligent than his, and she very much deserved to keep it.
He glanced at her now, standing tall beside her loom, bowing reverently. Her black clothing was meant to dissolve her into the shadows, but was having the opposite effect. She appeared elegant and stark behind the painted matrons, who clustered around the pool in their pinks and creams and blues, watching their own reflections. She hovered behind them like some dark, magnificent spirit. An ageless goddess among fatuous girls. A phoenix among peacocks.
He could not meet her in the garden.
The risk to her future was simply too great, no matter how much he ached to touch her one last time, to blanket her with his kisses. The thought of Arria stung by the governor’s lash ached worse.
Not that she could not endure such a fate. She had proven herself stronger than any woman he had ever known—Roman or otherwise. Labouring in the cold workshop without rest had not defeated her, nor had her beating, nor the knowledge that she faced ten long years of misery until her indenture was over.
He wondered what secret source of hope kept her going. It was as if she had been forged in fire, then polished by hardship and fate, and had somehow come out gleaming.
She was gleaming now in the torchlight. Her bowed head was tilted slightly, revealing the place where her neck met the back of her ear. It fascinated him, that shadowy borderland of flesh. He had failed to kiss her there in their night together and regretted it mightily. It had not been the only place he had failed to kiss.
He had tried to forget her. He had enumerated her faults in his mind: that she was Roman, that she could never be his, that every step he took towards her drew him further from the memory of his wife. It had been an exercise in frustration.
Everywhere was Arria. Arria with her hairpin. Arria touching his chest. Arria telling him that he could not die, as if simply saying the words would make them so. He wanted her too much to ever leave her and he loved her too much to ever stay.
Love. It was a strange word to come to mind, but its rightness warmed him like secret sunlight. He loved her and in another life he would have wooed her and wed her and worshipped her for the rest of his days. He loved her and he would do anything to keep her safe.
He could not meet her in the garden.
He could not put her at risk. If he did, then he was no better than the young, foolish man who’d put his own wife at risk so many years ago. The world was cruel and he needed to protect Arria from it—by protecting her from impossible wishes.
He could not meet her in the garden, not there in the shadows, where he could run his fingers over her face one last time, memorising its contours. He could not meet her and finally taste the skin of her neck or follow its long sinews to the other places he yearned to kiss. He could not meet her and caress her one last time, feel the weight of her breasts, to cradle them as he traced the taut field of her stomach and then down to the place where he knew she ached for him.
What had she said exactly? That being without him harmed her more than whatever harm could come of being with him. A clever turn of phrase. A handy argument. She had no idea the danger she invited by harbouring such a belief.
Though the idea was not senseless. He had clung to the memory of his wife for years because it was the only thing that brought him joy. If one did not find a source of joy, then the hours became endless and forgettable, like a vast, scorched field. Was that not what life was? Moments of joy and pain connected by miles of forgetting? The key was to focus on the joy, was it not?
Meet me in the garden, she had said.
‘Goddess of Earth, Keeper of the Family, Vesta the Pure...’
Later that evening, the Honourable Nerva Traiania Secunda would meet the gladiator they called the Dalmatian Dragon in her private chamber and whisper sweet things in his ear.
‘Vesta the Clear, Vesta the Clean, Vesta the Chaste...’
Later that evening, many of the white-robed men currently lost in prayer would do much the same, stealing away with the lovely young dancers already assembled at the edges of the room.
‘Virgin Mother, Keeper of the Flame...’
Virgin mother? How was that possible? By the gods, the Romans were strange.
Though Cal could not judge them too harshly, for soon he would be among them. Later that evening, he, too, would be sneaking in the shadows, stealing a bit of life where he could get it.
A bit of Arria.
Meet me in the garden, she had commanded and all he could do was obey.
The last trickle of blood sizzled on to the flames and Vesta hissed her gratitude. Freedom was more important than safety—that’s what she had told him. What she had really meant was that desire was more powerful than doubt. And love? Love, he feared, was the most powerful of all.
Would he come? She could not be certain. He had been so hesitant to agree to her request. Did he desire her still? That was the real question—one whose answer she could not divine. When he had called her the most beautiful woman in the world, he had stolen her very breath. Now as she passed another hour shivering amidst the ferns, she was beginning to think that he might not have meant it.
You are the most beautiful woman in the world, but...
She was not so inexperienced that she did not recognise a placation. Was that not what Zeus told Hera when she caught him with the lovely Io?
‘You are the most beautiful woman in the world, dear Hera. And this woman? She is but a cow!’
There were many such divine ‘cows’ at this banquet: splendid patrician goddesses who painted malachite on their eyes and dabbed wine dregs on their lips. They sought to conquer gladiators like Roman soldiers sought to conquer soil. They were probably circling him right now, jockeying for position around their magnificent divine bull.
Arria pressed her back against an old oak and stared up at the sky. He had to come. He was her pigeon after all. He had kissed her on the lips, had called her by her name. Had wanted her. But she had been waiting in this garden so long now that she had begun to grow roots.
And if he did not come, what then? Would she simply go on? Spend her days working diligently at her loom—warm, well fed and grateful for the life she had been given?
She knew that she could not. He had given her a taste of what it meant really to live and she knew she would not rest until she got herself free.
She believed her chance was coming soon. That evening after the Vestal prayer, the governor had announced that he had received communication from his brother-in-law, the bellicose Emperor Trajan. The new emperor would be paying a visit to Ephesus as part of his tour of the provinces. He would arrive in time to preside over the Festival of Artemis, including the gladiatorial bouts scheduled for the opening day.
Hosting the Emperor would be a great honour and a staggering responsibility. His large military escort would need to be provisioned and its officers wined and dined. There would be chaos—wild, wonderful chaos—and in it, Arria vowed to find a way out.
Arria heard voices somewhere close. Panicked, she scrambled up the trunk of the oak as a man and woman passed beneath its branches, then quietly moved on.
Arria had hardly begun to breathe again when a silent figure stepped near, the moonlight shining on his smooth round head.
‘Cal?’
‘Arria? Where are you?’
She edged down the tree trunk, taking the last few cubits in a jump.
‘You must be a goddess,’ he whispered, shaking his head and catching her by the waist. ‘You are always falling out of the sky.’
‘I do not always fall out of the sky.’ She pouted, joy flooding her heart. ‘Sometimes I emerge from watery places, like urns for example.’
‘That you do,’ he said, his voice husky. ‘You are my Venus from the foam.’
She conjured a clever reply, but when she opened her mouth to make it she discovered his lips on hers. And then he was kissing her hungrily, his breath hot, his hands stealing over her body like thieves.
It was everything she wanted, everything she had dreamed of since last they met, and all the threads of herself seemed to curl into perfect knots and the world seemed bright, despite the darkness, familiar, despite the strangeness, and somehow complete.
‘I feared you had abandoned me.’
‘As long as I live, I will not abandon you,’ whispered Cal.
‘You must always live, for you are my pigeon.’
‘Your what?’
‘My hope, my wings.’
‘And you are the home towards which I fly,’ he said.
There was no light by which to see, but as they kissed, she remembered him. Not in the simple ways one person remembered another—not just the shape of his body, the scent of his breath, the tenor of his voice. This was a deeper, more elemental remembering. Like the memory of fresh air, or sunshine, or laughter. She remembered him like she remembered happiness.
He kissed her more fiercely, his tongue growing bolder, plundering her mouth, taking what it wished.
‘Do you see what you have done to me?’ he asked.
Did he not know what he had done to her? Heat radiated through her body, along with a relentless, bubbling joy. It was as if she were a pot of barley mash and he the dancing flames beneath it.
He squeezed her closer, crushing her breasts against his chest and curling himself around her. ‘I fear this moment’s end,’ he said. ‘I fear that I may never see you again.’
‘Then our fears are the same,’ said Arria. ‘But let us seize our happiness now, for it strikes where it pleases.’
‘You are a sorceress,’ he intoned. He was kissing her behind her ear—soft, wicked kisses that were melting her bones.
‘How do you expect me to stand when you are doing such a thing?’ she whispered.
‘I do not expect you to stand at all,’ he answered, then whisked her up into his arms.
‘Cal!’
‘Shush, my sweet,’ he said, cradling her like a babe, ‘lest they come after us with their golden goblets.’
‘Am I not heavy?’
‘You are exactly the same weight as the lightest boulder I ever hewed from the Quarry of Luna,’ he said and she could almost see his wry smile. She gave his arm a playful punch, then nuzzled against his chest. He smelled of wine and incense, and that delicious, dusty maleness that was all his own.
‘Did anyone see you leave?’ she asked.
‘I do not think so, but it was difficult to get away. Vibia Secunda pulled me on to her couch.’
Arria gasped. ‘Did you...?’ Jealousy flared.
‘Of course not!’ replied Cal. ‘I flattered her incessantly, gave her a massage and kept her cup full of opium wine. She stayed awake as long as she could, but finally lay back and closed her eyes.’
Arria exhaled, although the thought of Cal massaging the shoulders of Vibia Secunda had made the blood roar in her ears. ‘Vibia may not stay asleep for long,’ said Arria. ‘When she awakes she will surely come looking for you.’
Cal sighed. ‘I fear that you speak truth.’
‘Why is there never enough time?’
‘It is not the quantity of time, but the quality of it that matters,’ he said. He kissed her forehead softly. ‘Or so we must believe so that we do not despair.’
She heartily disagreed. The quantity of time mattered, too, by the gods, and she would not allow him to convince her otherwise. The real problem was how to get more of it and there was only one solution to that problem: freedom.
‘Is it not auspicious that the Emperor will preside over your next games?’ she said carefully. ‘Perhaps he will grant you the rudius.’
‘Arria,’ he said. ‘In another life...’
‘In this life, Cal.’
Arria tried to picture Cal bowing to some purple-robed sovereign. She gave a resigned sigh. ‘Well, you could just jump out of the theatre and run.’
He stifled a laugh. ‘Do you really think I could run faster than the Praetorian cavalry?’
‘You could lose yourself in the streets,’ she offered.
‘With this head? And this scar?’ He guided her hand to the tip of his scar and he feigned a gasp. ‘Stop doing that.’
Arria giggled softly. ‘But I am doing nothing.’
He traced her hand slowly down his chest. ‘No, really. I mean really you must stop touching me like that,’ he teased. He had manoeuvred her body so that her back lay against his strong forearms and her folded legs squeezed against his chest.
‘Put your legs over my shoulders,’ he commanded.
‘What are you—?’
‘Do as I say, my little nymph,’ he protested. ‘The time for talk is over.’
Surely she could not contradict him, what with the time so short and his voice so urgent. Not that she would ever dream of resisting such a request. He cradled her backside as she lifted her legs over his shoulders.
‘Are you a madman?’ she whispered.
‘Shush.’ She braced an arm against the tree for balance. Her legs were now draped over his shoulders. The only thing between her womanhood and his mouth was the thin fabric of her loincloth. ‘Come here, fy nghariad,’ he said, nosing into the cloth. ‘Let me taste you.’
And in that moment the all-powerful gods, who had so far been indifferent and even kind to the two lovers, decided to unleash their wrath. A woman’s voice shrieked, ‘Guards!’
Something hit Cal over the head and he stumbled backwards. Losing the support of the tree, Arria slid from his shoulders and tumbled to the ground.
After that, the blows landed like stones. First a kick to her stomach, then a punch to her face. ‘You have given my father no choice, Arria,’ said a cool, female voice. Arria gasped, sucking the air. ‘You have betrayed our family’s dignitas.’
Arria opened her eyes to behold Vibia Secunda standing beside the governor. ‘I gave you everything and this is how you repay me?’
‘Arria!’ cried Cal. She could see his shadow only paces away, struggling against the figures of guards.
‘Do not harm the gladiator!’ commanded the governor. ‘Stand him up. I want him to watch.’
Arria felt a strong hand grip her arm. A knee thrust up against her stomach, then something hard collided with her cheek. Blood. Pain. Blows. More blows. To her legs. To her arms. To her middle and back. No part of her was safe. How long did the beating last? Minutes? Hours? Cal’s voice faded in and out of her mind. She was being dragged through the dirt, then pushed down a flight of stairs. She collapsed on to a hard floor and lay there sucking the air.
Dread infested her belly. Soon the sound of footsteps filled her ears. No, not more punishment. She sat up, but could not get herself to her feet. A pair of blood-red sandals appeared in her line of sight, lit by the boiler’s rosy glow.
‘Three simple rules, Arria,’ said the governor. ‘But why did I expect such a bestial woman to follow rules?’ He held his hand out before her eyes and she perceived the white of a small scar in the shape of a smile. ‘Do you know how long your little bite took to heal?’
The same hand gave her a sharp slap. ‘A month! I had to tell my wife and daughter that I was bitten by a dog. I suppose in a sense I was.’
She tried to respond, but no words came.
‘Oppius told me about your trysts with the Beast. I knew what would happen if I brought him here. Love is a powerful thing, is it not? Though I fear that in your case it is fleeting, for that barbarian scum is not long for this world. Why do you wince, Little Asp? You caused this yourself.’
The governor squatted down and grabbed her by the face. He placed his lips on hers and kissed her, his wet, sour mouth possessing hers, bruising it. ‘Let us have an accord,’ he said, still gripping her mouth. ‘Let us say that I will not release you from this dungeon until you come to me on your knees and beg me to have you...in the carnal fashion, I mean.’ He took her lower lip in his teeth and bit down hard.
She cried out in pain, but still he bit her and soon she felt the warmth of blood pooling in her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.
Finally, he released her. He stood and smoothed his toga. ‘I have no doubt you will learn, Little Asp, and you will come to me on your knees. It will just take time. And that is something I have in abundance.’