Forbidden to the Gladiator

by Greta Gilbert

  ‘I say there is no woman in Ephesus who is more worthy of your mercy,’ said Atticus, sending her a wink.

  ‘In that case, my guards will show you out, Burglar,’ said Trajan. ‘All I ask is that if you are successful in your campaign, you remember me. I am Trajan the Merciful.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  As promised, one of Trajan’s guards saw Arria past the door guards and well on her way, dismissing her with a Roman salute. Soon she was standing outside her insula, her heart swelling.

  And there, right where he had been the morning she had left, was her brother. His head lurched backwards. ‘Artemis?’ he cooed, his eyes squinting. ‘Have you come to take me hunting, Goddess? Let me just get my bow...’ His head fell forward and he appeared to resume his slumber. She poked him again.

  ‘Be gone, vermin!’ he howled at her.

  ‘It is I, Brother. It is your sister, Arria. It is time for you to wake up.’

  He gazed at her in wonder. ‘Arria? You look so very...wretched.’ He lifted an amphora to his lips.

  ‘There will be no more of that.’ She wrenched the large jug from his arms, tipped it to her lips and took a long, fortifying drink. Then she smashed the clay vessel upon the ground. The wine splashed everywhere, staining her legs red. It was quite possibly the most satisfying thing she had ever done.

  ‘You dirty cow!’ her brother shrieked. ‘That was my week’s ration!’ He lunged forward, grasping for her ankle.

  Arria stepped backwards. ‘If you dare try to harm me, Brother, I will crush your wine-addled head right here upon the cold concrete.’

  Her brother recoiled. He peered up at her warily. ‘You have changed, Sister?’

  ‘I bring sad news,’ Arria said. ‘Father is... He is dead.’

  ‘What?’

  Arria paused, letting her brother absorb the news. ‘He was murdered by a very bad man. That man wants to kill me, too. He will come looking for me. If you and Mother are here, he will kill you instead.’

  Her brother steadied his head. ‘Father is dead?’

  Arria nodded and watched her brother put his face in his hands. He did not howl or weep. He only sighed and, when he looked up at Arria, his expression had sobered.

  ‘You are the pater familias now,’ she said.

  ‘Me? Pater familias?’

  ‘You have a choice—you can help me get Mother to safety, or you can stay here in this filthy gutter waiting to die.’ She held out her hand. ‘What is your choice?’

  The trip up the stairs went faster than Arria thought possible. Her brother insisted on ascending without Arria’s aid and she was amazed at how quickly he moved on his crutches.

  When she stepped inside her family’s small room, she nearly collapsed in relief. There was her mother lying on the bed, her belly ready to burst. She was emaciated, anguished and blessedly alive.

  ‘Mother!’ Arria bent and embraced her mother, joyous tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Arria, you have returned to me. Thank Jesus!’

  ‘Mother, you must listen to me now. You are in grave danger. Take this purse.’

  Arria quickly explained her plan. Her mother and brother would follow the aqueduct out of town, making their way towards the mountain village of Serenus. There they would use some of the purse money to purchase food and lodging for the night.

  ‘If I do not arrive the day after tomorrow, then you must move on and do not wait for me. You must get as far away from Ephesus as you can. The governor will be searching for you. You must not let yourselves be found.’

  Her mother and brother spoke as one. ‘The governor?’

  ‘I will explain later. All that matters now is that you escape his reach.’

  ‘Will you not come with us, Arria?’

  ‘There are others—people whom I must not forget.’

  ‘And your father?’ her mother asked. ‘He will meet us somewhere?’ Arria glanced at her brother.

  ‘Clodius will tell you about Father. Just get yourselves to Serenus. All right? Now let us get you both packed.’

  * * *

  A short while later, Arria was watching the two lumber off up Harbour Street—a pregnant woman and a crippled man trying to escape the Fates. She sent a prayer to the goddesses Kybele, then Artemis, then Mary, hoping to blanket the two travellers in grace.

  For herself, she only begged the goddess Ephesia to send her strength. Get tough, she told herself. Be a warrior.

  * * *

  When she arrived outside Oppius’s villa, the light of dawn was already growing in the sky. She knew where each of the guards were stationed: the first outside the front door, the second outside the entrance to the workshop and the third walking the perimeter of the villa throughout the night. She waited for the third guard to pass around the back of the workshop, then threw a handful of pebbles at one of the small windows.

  Many long moments passed, but Arria soon heard the soft thud of an object in the dust. The key.

  ‘You must first distract the guards,’ whispered Grandmother’s voice through the open window.

  ‘How?’ Arria called back.

  ‘The horses.’

  Arria ducked into the stables and found both of Oppius’s horses standing in their stalls. It was not difficult to untie them and lead them into the courtyard, where she opened the exit gate and sent them running. Soon, all three guards were shouting and rushing after them.

  Arria dashed to the entrance of the workshop and felt for the bolt-release holes. She lined up the points of the key with the holes and then yelped in horror. They did not fit the lock. The forks had been carved just a little too far apart.

  ‘What is it, Arria?’ Grandmother asked from the other side of the door.

  ‘Just one moment.’

  Think, Arria.

  The door was made of thick oak. If she had an axe she might be able to tear it down. But where to find an axe? On a whim, she put her hands on the bolt handle and pulled. Miraculously the door opened. It had never even been locked! Arria pushed open the door and blinked in wonder as she gazed out at the dusty prison in which she had unquestioningly remained for months. It was a prison without a lock. A prison of their own minds.

  Arria felt the eyes of a dozen women staring at her across the darkness. ‘I have come to free you,’ she announced. ‘The guards have gone after the horses. We must flee now.’

  Arria expected a stampede of women, but only Grandmother and Epona hurried through the door. ‘Will you not come with us now?’ Arria begged the rest. ‘You will face danger, but your lives will be your own. Is that not worth the risk?’

  It seemed that it was not. The ten other women stared at her with expressionless eyes. Perhaps they had been inside this cage for so long that they had forgotten what freedom looked like. Perhaps Oppius had promised them freedom upon the occasion of his death, as so many masters did. Or perhaps they knew exactly what freedom looked like, but had only forgotten their desire for it.

  Arria felt a shadow pass over her. She realised that if she had never defied the governor, if she had followed his rules and woven his carpets and languished in his warm rooms, she would have eventually become like these women. She would have slowly forgotten her family, her freedom, her love of an honourable gladiator and her desire to save his life. The days would have slipped by, then the years. Life would have become...forgettable. Slowly, her spirit would have died.

  ‘It is not good enough!’ she shouted, though the sound she emitted was more like a sob. Leaving the door open, Arria dashed down the stairs and joined Grandmother. ‘Where is Epona?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Grandmother, looking about desperately. ‘She went running through the gate.’

  In the distance, Arria heard a horse’s whinny and a woman’s loud shriek. Soon Epona was galloping towards them, her long auburn hair flying beh
ind her like a horse’s mane.

  Epona brought the horse to a halt before Arria and Grandmother and smiled. It was the first real smile Arria had ever seen grace Epona’s face.

  ‘Give Grandmother a lift up!’ she commanded, holding out her arm. Arria wove her fingers together into a foothold and soon Grandmother was gripping Epona’s waist, her grin matching Epona’s. ‘Come,’ said Epona, motioning to the back of the horse. ‘There is room for a third.’

  Arria shook her head. ‘I cannot go with you.’

  ‘You are mad if you think you can save him,’ said Epona, stretching her arm down to Arria. ‘Come.’

  Arria stepped backwards. ‘I must try.’

  There was the sound of hoofbeats, and soon Oppius’s second horse came galloping into view. Atop him sat Oppius’s largest guard, his sword drawn.

  ‘Go to Serenus and find my mother and brother,’ Arria told Epona. ‘I beg you. My brother is lame and my mother is heavy with child. They need your help.’

  The rider was almost upon them. ‘We will find them,’ promised Epona, snapping her reins. ‘But, Arria, you must run!’

  And that is what Arria did. She sprinted into the field behind Oppius’s villa, her only thought to evade the mounted guard. She did not know where she was going. She only kept running, changing direction as often as she could, seeking the thickest, most overgrown paths. Soon she found herself in a swampy area crowded with broadleaved trees.

  She had lost her pursuer, thank the gods, but she had also lost her way. She struggled forward, feeling exhaustion overtake her. She had not eaten in many days and did not know how much longer she would be able to go on. Perhaps Grandmother had been mistaken. Perhaps she could not be a warrior after all. How did she expect to save Cal’s life when she could not even make her way out of a forest?

  Then she spied a bright white column amidst the tangle of trees. She stepped into a clearing and froze, struck with awe. The Temple of Artemis rose up before her in the pale light of dawn, still aglow with the memory of moonlight.

  It was several moments before Arria caught her breath. Several more before she could move her legs again. The gargantuan white-columned building floated above the swampy forest like a great ship. The building dwarfed even the tallest of trees, its size and grandeur rivalled only by Egypt’s great pyramids, or so Arria had heard. And that was well, for the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus was not only the Empire’s most magnificent temple, it was, according to many, greatest of the world’s seven wonders.

  Her heart beating, Arria ascended the marble steps into a new kind of forest—one of bone-white columns. The torches had long been extinguished and daylight cascaded into the temple from the large rectangular opening in the roof. It illuminated the colourful, swirling frescoes that danced on every ceiling and surface, and brightened the elaborate reliefs that trimmed the walls and columns.

  And yet she was bathed in space. Before her, the blue marble floor spread out like a placid lake. The statue of the sacred goddess stood waiting upon its distant shore, her arms outstretched, beckoning.

  Arria began to walk towards the goddess, scanning the temple for a hierodoule or other servant of the goddess. It occurred to Arria that today was the kalends of April—the first day of the Festival of Artemis. This very evening, the goddess would be ushered from her dais and paraded through Ephesus by the light of the rising moon to the music of trumpets and drums.

  Though now all was silent. Arria thought she saw the flap of a skirt disappear behind a column. A priestess, perhaps? ‘May peace be with you,’ Arria said by way of greeting, but there was no answer.

  The goddess’s mysterious figure took shape as Arria approached. Strange, bulbous adornments hung in white marble rows across her chest, making her appear unlike any Greek or Roman goddess that Arria had ever seen.

  It was said that when the Amazons founded Ephesus, they discovered the ancient goddess Kybele in the exact place where Artemis now stood. Kybele had been adorned with similar bulbous ornaments—the severed testicles of the divine bulls that had been sacrificed in her honour.

  Arria felt her palms becoming moist as she arrived at the base of the dais to behold Artemis, the Roman Diana, Queen of the Wildland, Mistress of Animals, Goddess of Birth and of the Hunt.

  The Goddess’s almond eyes were set wide, her cheeks long, her lips large with the fullness of youth. And yet she was neither young nor old, neither Roman nor Greek. There was something eternal in her otherworldly face, as if she had existed since the beginning of time. It was, Arria realised, just like the face she had been weaving into her latest carpet.

  Arria closed her eyes and the world began to spin. Suddenly, she was not kneeling on fine marble, but soft, ancient earth. And in that moment, it was as if all of her own worldly woes were as ephemeral as grass, the only thing that endured was the sky scattered with stars.

  A breath of wind softened into the temple, cooling Arria’s cheeks. The sun moved higher in the sky. In only hours, Cal would step out into the arena to face his own death. And what could Arria do about it?

  Nothing. She was a weaver, not a warrior. She could not simply dive into the arena and place herself at Cal’s side. Could she?

  She placed her wooden pole before her. ‘Blessed Goddess,’ Arria whispered. ‘I beg you, send me your counsel.’

  The Goddess stood silent.

  If only Arria had something to offer—some small token of her reverence. She reached beneath her belt and discovered her tear-stained handkerchief, still tinted with the memory of Cal’s blood. She laid the handkerchief before the goddess. Blood and tears. It would have to be enough.

  Arria closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the handkerchief had disappeared. She blinked. She had placed it not an arm’s length away, at the foot of Artemis’s high pedestal. Where had it gone?

  Had the breeze blown it away? Arria glanced about the temple and strained her ears, listening for a thief. But there was no one, or any sign of the handkerchief. Had the goddess somehow accepted the humble gift?

  She glanced down again. Arria’s pole was gone, too. In its place was a mighty spear.

  She dared a glance at the Goddess. There she remained, cool and distant. Beautiful and strange. Just behind her, Arria thought she heard the shuffle of footsteps.

  Though perhaps her mind was just playing tricks. The spear was not really a spear, after all. It was still her pole, only now she could finally see that it was not merely a tool. And Arria was no longer a simple weaver.

  ‘Gratitude, great Goddess,’ she whispered, and kissed the floor.

  When she reached the temple steps she saw that the world remained. Everything was the same. The only thing that had changed was Arria. She had been gifted a mighty spear by the Goddess Artemis herself.

  There was nothing left to do now but go and use it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cal stood inside the stage house at the great theatre of Ephesus and stared out at the silent crowd. In the venatio hunt that morning, a man with a gleaming sword had killed a lion and stood atop its chest while the Ephesians found their seats. Soon after, when the same hunter had been disembowelled by an angry bear, they laughed and cheered. And in the midday executions, when three escaped slaves had been decapitated by a single stroke of an executioner’s blade, they had chatted and drunk their honeyed wine.

  But now they were silent, reverent, as their great Emperor Trajan stepped out on to the stage and bowed. He wore a general’s purple cape and white tunic trimmed with gold, and his large chest was encompassed by a decorated muscle cuirass made of gleaming silver. He was flanked by a cluster of similarly dressed, red-caped officers and a swarm of stony-faced guards, who stared up at the hushed crowd of twenty-five thousand with the indifference of warriors.

  Outside, thousands more men and women had filled the streets. If Trajan succeeded with his intended conquests
of Dacia and Parthia, he would be responsible for stretching Roman borders to their greatest extent in history. No wonder the people sat on the edges of their seats. The Emperor who stood before them was not only the most powerful man in all the world, he was quite possibly the most powerful man in all of history, an illustrious peer of Alexander the Great himself.

  Now Trajan held up both his hands. ‘Citizens of Ephesus, to honour the great goddess Artemis, I give you these humble games,’ he said simply. ‘Bring forth the gladiators!’

  There was a long silence and, when it became clear that Trajan had nothing more to say, someone shouted, ‘Long live Emperor Trajan!’ The crowd erupted in cheers as the great man took his seat beside the governor, who was already lounging beside his wife and daughter in the booth of honour at the centre of the theatre.

  Sitting beside Trajan, the governor looked small and rather conniving. His black-rimmed eyes squinted against the afternoon sun and he sipped delicately at the contents of a golden goblet as if treating an overindulgence of wine.

  Cal remembered how the governor had smiled as he kicked Arria to the ground, how his squinting eyes had twinkled as he commanded that Cal be made to watch. Where had the governor sent her after her beating? What unthinkable punishment had Arria been made to endure because Cal had been unable to resist meeting her in the garden that night?

  He could never forgive himself. When she had begged him to give up his life that night in the barracks, she had already become a shadow of herself. What terrible combination of thirst and hunger had the governor made her endure? What amount of fire and smoke? Seeing her trembling before him had shaken him to his bones. She had finally been broken and whatever remained of his soul had softly broken, too.

  Now his body would follow his soul and it was high time. No more pretending that he could defy them, or that his life had any meaning at all. The governor had won and so had the Empire of Rome. Cal’s time had come.