by Tessa Afshar
As was customary, I took off my sandals when we arrived, and a slave tried his best to wash my feet, but the edge of my tunic had become hopelessly stained with mud.
Worse still, I realized as I made my entrance that my best tunic seemed shabby in the company that had gathered at Servius’s house. Women adorned with colorful jewels sparkled in their priceless silk robes. Their necks and arms were embellished with gold and silver beads, winking in the lamplight. They floated from one group to another with an ease I could only dream of. This was a gathering of the sophisticated and the beautiful. I felt coarse in comparison.
I gulped as I glimpsed Diantha and one of her friends standing next to Justus in a corner, their heads bent toward him in a pose that suggested intimacy.
Servius welcomed my father with a gracious embrace. “And you have adorned my house by bringing the lovely Ariadne into it,” he said, affectionately kissing my cheek. His appearance shocked me. I remembered him as a robust man, tall, muscular, with a sinewy strength that seemed unyielding. Now, he looked hollow, so frail that a strong wind might snap his bones in two. Justus had mentioned that he was unwell, but I had not realized the serious nature of his illness.
His sickness had not robbed him of his business interests, obviously, as he engaged my father in a discussion about an apple orchard he wished to purchase. Within moments, they had walked off. Theo followed them, leaving me to fend for myself.
I stood alone, shifting my weight from one foot to another. My mouth fell open when Diantha’s friend approached me. I saw that her eyes were as violet as the tunic that accentuated her spectacular curves. My hope that she had come to welcome me plummeted to a quick death.
“So you are the brazen wench who plans to run the stadion,” she drawled.
“I am the brazen wench who plans to win it,” I said, chin high. I would have swallowed a wriggling mouse rather than reveal how awed I felt by her.
She arched an eyebrow, the violet eyes sparkling like the amethysts at her throat. “Pert, aren’t you? For a girl who will bring nothing but disgrace to Corinth by running in a public race.”
“I predict she will inspire a new trend,” Justus drawled from behind me. “Every little girl will now dream of registering for the short sprint at the Isthmian Games. Ariadne will make such a pretty display.”
My head snapped up and I bristled. Little girl? I was about to reply with a sharp retort when reason took hold. Justus had praised me in public, extending his considerable influence to defend me.
Caught between appreciation for his support and annoyance at his derisive compliment, I said, “Thank you,” though the words almost made me choke.
“Pretty! Surely that’s an exaggeration,” the woman said, readjusting the folds of silk at her chest, drawing attention to her exquisite figure.
“Stop tormenting the child, Claudia.” Justus drew her shapely arm through his own and walked away with his smirking guest swaying next to him.
Theo came to stand by me. “I would have come to your rescue, but Justus seemed to have it in hand. He is the best of men.”
I reached for a large piece of melon from a nearby tray and shoved it into my mouth.
We found an unoccupied couch, and I was about to recount the full story when a slim girl about my age threw herself next to me. “Isn’t she simply vile?”
“Who?” I said, nonplussed, staring. She was short, flat-chested, and wrapped in a tunic even plainer than my own.
“Claudia, that’s who. I heard what she said to you. I swear by Hera, she has fangs and talons.” She pushed out her chest and fluttered her lashes. “‘Surely that’s an exaggeration,’” she mimicked, making Theo and me grin. “Don’t listen to a word, Ariadne,” she said. “You are ravishing.”
My eyes widened. “You know my name?”
“You are famous! The first girl from a good Corinthian family to register for an athletic event in the Isthmian Games. My friends are dying to meet you.”
Something in me melted a little. Something hard and corrosive. My shoulders relaxed. “Do you have a name?” I said.
“I am Claudia the Younger. I have four sisters, and all of them are called Claudia, in honor of the great family connection.”
The Claudians were a mighty family in Rome, related by blood to such notables as Caesar Augustus and Tiberius. I arched a brow. “Impressive.”
“The connection is minor. Enough to foist the name upon the girls in our family. That Claudia, whom you had the ill luck of meeting, is my oldest sister.”
“No!”
“It is the tragic truth. Pity me. I share a house with that harridan.” She leaned toward me. “By any chance, would you be willing to teach me to run?”
I sized up the thin arms and legs. “I can try.”
“That is all I ask! I am trying to discover something at which I am gifted. So far, I have failed learning several musical instruments, including the flute and cithara, I am miserable at weaving and needlework of every variety, and I can’t paint or cook.” She ticked the subjects off on her fingers. “There must be some endeavor at which I excel.”
Not surprisingly, it turned out that Claudia was not gifted at running, either. But I discovered one exquisite talent in the slim girl. She knew how to be a true friend.
When Justus told me that he planned to travel to Athens and visit Dionysius while conducting business there, I sat down to write a letter to my brother. My letters to him were usually carefully phrased, devoid of personal revelations as I suspected they would be inspected before they found their way into his hands. On this occasion, knowing that Justus would give the missive to my brother personally, I wrote more freely.
As the words flowed without restrictions, I felt my heart contract. I missed my brother beyond words: missed his dear face, the serious eyes, the slight shake of his head when I was ridiculous or impish, the tolerant smile when I chose to be stubborn. A part of me had been torn when I left him behind in Athens. A part of me kept tearing each day that I prevented him from coming to Corinth.
I blinked back tears. I aimed to cheer him, not depress the man with maudlin thoughts. I took up the stylus and began to write.
From Ariadne, your devoted sister, to my beloved Dionysius,
I send you my heart and greetings with this letter. How I give thanks that you are well and prospering, dear brother.
By now, you will have heard of my intention to participate in the upcoming Isthmian Games. Before you lay the blame for such a reckless scheme at my door, you should know it was Father’s idea. I neither nagged him nor begged him into compliance. In any case, it is done, and you will not be ashamed, I hope! And Theo has been training with Justus for the chariot races. I only wish you could be here to complete our joy.
Your absence is the one blight in my life, Dionysius. I know I am the cause of it.
With an angry swipe, I wiped the tears that had dampened my cheek. So much for being cheerful.
Theo and Father will write their own letters. I wish you good health and happiness, and hope the years will pass quickly so that I may see you again. Pet Herodotus the cat for me, and do not give my regards to Grandfather. Father says I must send Mother salutations as befits a dutiful daughter. And so I greet her most dutifully, and wish her as far away from Corinth as a tempest.
With all my affection,
Ariadne
CHAPTER 7
RUNNING SWALLOWED a large part of my focus and time. When he was not with Justus, learning what he could about chariot races, Theo showed me new exercises, which he learned at the palaestra. One day he returned from the gymnasium with a new trick. “I met a man from Crete who taught us how to flip. Watch.”
He stood perfectly still for a moment, then jumped backward. His body didn’t leap high enough, and he landed on his belly. I laughed so hard, I must have turned blue. Theo ignored me. Dusting himself off, he came to his feet and tried again. And again, until he managed to do it. I was enthralled.
“This man could
flip forward and backward, and leap from a whole story down without hurting himself,” Theo said. “He seemed boneless. He assured us that with practice, we could learn to do the same.”
“Teach me,” I said, captivated by the new sport and determined to master it.
Though Theo himself had only grasped the basics of the exercise, he started to teach me what he knew. The rest we made up or learned by experimenting.
Theo and I pushed ourselves to become proficient in flips, cartwheels, and tumbling. We kept this new exercise a secret. While we were experimenting, we were clumsy and often fell. If Father had seen our bruises, he would have put a stop to our activities. Day after day, Theo and I pressed our bodies until we grasped the technique and correct form needed for the sport, gaining confidence and expertise.
As we improved, we grew used to wrapping this part of our lives in secrecy. I suppose we both felt that one day we would share this new talent with the world. We simply were not ready yet.
With practice, the flipping, jumping, twisting in the air, and landing with precision had become second nature. To my delight, the grueling drills we put ourselves through made our bodies more agile, so that my balance improved and I could run faster than ever before.
In the spring, Theo’s palaestra held a public competition. Although this was merely a local event, the school, which was famed for its excellence, had drawn a strong showing of influential patrons from Corinth, and the modest arena teemed with an eager crowd. They had invited Justus, their exalted graduate, to host the competitions and hand out the awards this day.
I spotted Claudia the Elder and Diantha among the crowds and suspected it was Justus’s presence that had drawn them to a humble athletic contest. They walked by me without acknowledging my presence. This was the first formal wrestling match I had ever attended, and I refused to allow their snub to ruin my enjoyment. I was there to support Theo, who was participating in the competitions.
I saw my fair share of well-oiled, sun-bronzed male bodies that morning, strutting about like roosters, crowing for attention. Most young men competed in the nude, though some, like Theo, opted to wear a small loincloth. I pretended not to ogle, especially when my father would clear his throat loudly and elbow me in the ribs.
Justus opened the ceremonies with a short but moving speech about courage and perseverance. The spectators clapped enthusiastically when he finished. Claudia threw a pink rose at his feet, making the crowds cheer even louder. Inexplicably, I felt a surge of anger at her presumption. Who was Claudia to act so familiar with him? With a smile, Justus picked up the flower. I was relieved when he threw it back into the throng.
Tamping down my temper, I cheered when Theo entered the arena. Months of relentless practice and the resulting bulge in muscle had turned my foster brother into a brutal force of nature. He was a deadly combination of balance and strength. Our secret exercises had toned his body, giving him the agility and speed of a panther.
Wrestlers cast lots to determine their combat partners, and Theo found himself matched against a young man of his own age. They were of even size and weight, so the outcome would depend on skill, perseverance, and boldness. The boys, pumped up with excitement and slippery from the application of too much oil, leapt at each other the moment the match began. Theo had an edge from the start, taking his opponent down with a shoulder hold.
The next round lasted a matter of minutes before Theo grasped the tall boy in a chin lock, making short work of the match. To my stupefaction, he defeated his next opponent as well, besting an older and more experienced wrestler. This placed Theo in the final round for the prize, facing Kylon, the previous year’s champion at the palaestra.
Except for Father, Justus, and me, as well as a polite smattering of Father’s friends, no one rooted for my foster brother. He was a nobody who was threatening a well-liked champion. The man was bigger than Theo and more experienced. I had barely had time to blink when Kylon flipped Theo onto his back. He scrambled onto Theo’s stomach, his broad shoulders flexing as he tried to strangle my foster brother. The crowd roared its approval. Theo tried to roll away but found himself stuck under the massive weight. Within moments, he was choking, his face turning purple.
I thought an official would intercept since a point had already been scored, but no one called a halt. The referee wanted to force Theo to capitulate, ending the match early. He did not know my foster brother. Theo did not give up easily. Father stood rigid by my side, his brow drenched in sweat. I pressed a fist against my mouth.
Somehow Theo managed to grasp Kylon’s arm. With lightning speed, he twisted and rolled, throwing Kylon on his back, landing on top of him before the huge man could escape. The point belonged to Theo. An official immediately signaled for the men to rise, giving the wrestlers a few moments to recover. They were now even, having each earned a point.
At a sign from the referee, the two men came together again. This time, Theo took Kylon down so swiftly that I could not even discern how he had done it. He slammed his body on top of the other man and followed through with a powerful choke hold that forced a chalk-faced Kylon to concede defeat. The spectators were silent with shock for a moment. Then Father and I screamed with delight. I could not help grinning when Justus joined his voice to ours, pumping his fist in the air and shouting my foster brother’s name.
Theo was declared victor and awarded a wreath of laurel leaves by Justus, though the crowd’s applause was muted at best.
After putting on a short tunic, Theo joined us, glowing with exhilaration and oil, looking like one of the immortals. A sculptor trailed him, pestering him to model for one of his statues. “With all that muscle, you would make a perfect Ares, young man. Who better to pose as the god of war?” he was saying.
Theo blushed, making us laugh. “Perhaps another time,” he said. Asking Theo to stand still for any length of time was like asking a bee to pirouette to the music of a flute. He simply was incapable.
Diantha ambled past us just at that moment. She lingered for a moment and gazed at Theo. “The foundling wins,” she said, her tone disparaging. “Corinth’s standards are slipping.”
I lunged, planning to wrestle her to the ground, when Theo grabbed one arm and my father the other, pulling me back. “Let her be,” my levelheaded foster brother whispered. I could tell from his pallor and gritted teeth that Diantha’s words had cut deep.
He had fought valiantly and won every match with grace. Yet instead of holding him in high esteem, Corinth had spared him a stingy applause and barely given him his victor’s due. All because he came from dubious parentage. I wanted to weep at the unfairness of it.
Theo reminded me of the butterfly bush I had once planted in our garden. With great care, I had been tending the scraggly plant, nurturing it with special feed and plentiful water. For my reward, it produced clusters of purple flowers that drew butterflies of breathtaking beauty. It was my pride and joy, that plant. I was astonished when Father told me that on the isle of Britannia, butterfly bushes were considered a weed, and the inhabitants pulled them out by the root and discarded them.
All that beauty, a weed! I could not conceive it.
Now, as Diantha and the rest of Corinth called my brother a foundling instead of a champion, I felt the same incomprehension. How could they be so blind? How could they not see the treasure he was?
Diantha and Claudia made their way to Justus, who stood surrounded by a knot of admirers. To my surprise, he pushed past the tangle of fans, leaving Diantha mid-speech, and walked to us.
“Brilliant match, Theo,” he said, clapping my foster brother on the back.
Theo grinned, his eyes shining at the compliment. “When you were my age, you won your first chariot race at the Isthmian Games. That is what I call brilliant.”
“One accomplishment does not diminish the other. Do not sell yourself short. I could never wrestle so well as you.”
I noticed his attention wavering, and when I followed the direction of his gaze, I saw a
man dressed in a Greek tunic shrieking at a young girl.
“That is my steward,” Justus said with a frown.
The man bellowed at the girl again, looking enraged. Without a word, Justus took off toward the pair. Before he could reach them, the steward grabbed the girl’s arm roughly and twisted it, bringing her to her knees. She was pleading with him. Her words came to an abrupt halt when he backhanded her across the face, his ring leaving a faint trail of blood. I cringed, nauseated by his violence.
Justus slithered through the crowd like an eel and skidded to a halt next to the girl. The man had his arm raised, about to deliver another strike to her already-bruised cheek. Justus grabbed a fistful of fabric at the man’s chest and pushed him back. Losing his balance, the steward sprawled on the ground. I gave Theo a silent look and began to run in their direction, Theo in my wake. I wanted to be close at hand should Justus need help.
“How dare you hit the child? She is half your size!” Justus was saying when we arrived. A vein pulsed at the base of his neck.
His steward sat frozen to the ground. “Master! She disobeyed me.”
“You know I forbid the beating of slaves. Especially the women.”
“That was not what I would consider a beating.” The steward gave a weak smile and made to rise. “I barely grazed her. They need a little discipline or they run wild.”
Justus grew very quiet. His eyes narrowed. “Do you graze my slaves often?”
The man sat down again abruptly. “No, master.”
The girl dropped her gaze. A tear coursed down her cheek, followed by another. Justus dropped to one knee in front of her. “Niobe, has he done this to you before?”
