by L. A. Witt
Stomach twisting with panic, I pull my gaze from him and look at the rows of symbols in front of me. So this is poetry? Somewhere in there is poetry?
“I’m waiting.” Drusus’s tone teeters precariously between amused taunting and dangerous impatience.
I release my breath. “I’m sorry, Dominus.” I slowly roll the scroll, careful as I can not to wrinkle it. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I sweep my tongue across my lips and hold the scroll out to him. “I can’t read.”
There’s no surprise in his expression. No reaction at all, really, nor can I be certain what he’s thinking when he says, “Can’t you?”
My heart pounds. “No. I can’t.” Can all citizens read? Gods, I have no idea. Have I just revealed I’m not an auctoratus?
Drusus sets his cup down and takes the scroll from me. He puts it aside and then folds his hands loosely across his lap. “If you can’t read, Saevius”—my name again, curse him—“then why were you so nervous when I asked about the message this morning?”
I try not to choke on my own breath as I say, “I’m still new to the ludus.” I gnaw my lip. “My place in the familia isn’t yet certain. If a man who’d been here longer than me had decided to save his own skin, I haven’t yet proven my loyalty to you or to the rest of the familia enough to defend my name over that of a man who’s been here a while.”
“These are the same men, you realize,” he says, his even tone betraying nothing, “who beat you in the yard the night you arrived.”
My chest tightens. I’m not sure how to respond without admitting I lied to him. Of course he knows, but to admit it outright would be foolhardy.
“You took a beating for them.” He inclines his head. “In fact, one from them and one for them. You believe they’d accuse you of their own crimes to cover themselves. And yet, you won’t tell me their names.”
Still, I’m silent.
Drusus releases an impatient sigh. “I’ve been a lanista for a long time, Saevius, and I’ve done my share of fighting.” The unsettling arch of his eyebrow rises just enough to make me shiver. “I know what marks a man’s fist can leave, and I know what marks a training sword can leave.”
I swallow, certain I can still taste the salt of my own blood from the other night, and reach for my wine again.
Drusus goes on. “There were four men in my training yard the other morning with very fresh marks that could only come from hand-to-hand combat.” He tilts his head slightly, and leather creaks as he folds his arms across the ever-present breastplate. “So I’m not certain if I should be furious that my newest auctoratus lied to me so soon after his arrival in my ludus, or if I should be duly impressed that he was still walking and fighting after taking on several of my men and the flagellum.”
“My apologies for the disturbance, Dominus,” is all I can say. “It won’t happen again.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that.” His eyes narrow and he picks up his wine again. “But I admit, I’m both intrigued and perhaps a little alarmed by what I may have brought into my familia.”
Once again, I have no idea what to say.
“Tell me something, Saevius.” He doesn’t lift his gaze from the wine he’s swirling in his cup. “Why are you here?”
My throat tightens, and my own wine cup nearly tumbles from my hands. “I’m sorry?”
“I believe I spoke clearly,” he says. “Why are you here?” When I don’t immediately answer, he says, “I’m certainly not objecting to your presence in my ludus.” He offers a wry grin over the rim of his cup. “After all, I’m sure you realize you could make me a great deal of money.”
I lower my chin, unsure where this conversation is going. “Yes, Dominus, I do.”
“Drusus,” he says. “Just call me Drusus.”
I don’t like these masters demanding familiarity. Permission to call a man above my station by his name has, so far, come with very unsavory prices.
“Very well,” I say quietly. “Drusus.”
“Much better. As I was saying, you could make me a great deal of money.” He pauses, watching his fingers turn his wine cup around and around as his brow furrows with some unspoken thought before he finally says, “But I’m curious, Saevius, why are you here?”
I take a deep swallow from my wine cup. “I have been a gladiator for years,” I reply. “I have no skill that isn’t fighting. Freedom is well and good, but if I have no way to eat, then . . .”
“Yes, but what brought you to my ludus?”
“Where else . . .” I pause, swallowing hard. “Where would you have me go?”
He shrugs. “There are State-run ludi here, in Rome, in every city. Why not them?” Leaning back in his chair, he brings his cup to his lips. “Why here?” He waves the hand holding his wine. “Not that I’d prefer the State obtaining a lucrative left-handed fighter. After all, now that they’re trying to regulate ludi within an inch of every lanista’s life”—he rolls his eyes—“a man in my position needs every advantage he can get to stay competitive. To make enough money to stay alive as a lanista.” Another pause, and he shrugs with one shoulder. “To stay alive at all, really.”
“I’ve heard the gossip,” I say, “about the State running every ludus and all the games.”
“Indeed,” Drusus mutters. “Which brings me back to you.” He sets his cup down, and the breastplate creaks as he leans forward. He rests his elbows on his knees and looks me in the eyes. “A fighter like you will give me a lucrative advantage. Men will pay to book my troupe for you alone, and your name will be an attractive one on the billboards. This is good for me.”
I nod, but say nothing.
“Question is,” he says quietly, “what’s in it for you?”
I take another sip of wine. “I came to you because your name is known throughout the Empire. You’re . . . a very well-respected lanista.”
His eyebrows jump. “Am I, now?”
“Yes, Dominus.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” He raises his wine cup and smiles. “Here I was afraid they all cursed my name.” A smirk plays at his lips, and then he takes a drink, and I don’t know if he’s joking or being arrogant. Perhaps both.
I keep it to myself that most of the men who speak his name do curse it.
“So you came to my ludus,” he says. “Of your own free will, as an obviously experienced fighter. And then, not only do my men attack you in the middle of the night, beating you well beyond the hazing most new recruits endure, but when they do, you take the fall for them. Ten lashes in the pit, and still you didn’t give up a single name.” He leans closer. “You haven’t been here long enough to have any loyalty to those men, so I can only assume your silence was self-preservation. Am I correct?”
There’s no further point in lying. He knows, and I have no other explanation to offer in place of the one he’s presented. “Yes, Dominus.”
“I like that,” he declares. “I do. I value loyalty, but a man who’s wise enough to take another man’s punishment for himself instead of giving the rest of the familia a chance to turn on or distrust you? I respect that. And you have every reason to be concerned about the men turning on you. My ludus is peaceful compared to others—I’ll kill any man here who threatens that—but there are men in this familia who’d gut their own mothers if it would benefit them.”
My skin crawls.
“I know you’re not the auctoratus who is sending messages out of my ludus,” he says suddenly. “Even before I knew you couldn’t read, I knew.”
I blink. “You did?”
“Of course,” he says.
I sip my wine, but have no idea what to say. It’s not my place to demand an explanation, and Drusus has me far enough off guard, I’m afraid to even ask for one.
“There’s a reason I brought you in here.” He’s deadly serious now, and I can no longer taste the wine on my tongue. “In addition to being a lucrative fighter for my ludus, it occurs to me you might be of even greater value
if I put you to . . . other uses.”
I force the wine down my tightening throat. “Whatever you ask of me, Dominus.”
Quietly, he says, “You haven’t been here long. Not long enough to form bonds and rivalries with the men, though you’ve earned enough respect from them now, they’d be fools to try to haze you again.”
“One can hope,” I say dryly.
He gives a quiet laugh. “Well, I don’t buy for brains.”
I chuckle a little myself before taking another drink, but this situation is unnerving me. Badly. Master Calvus sent me in here for a specific purpose, but I cannot disobey Master Drusus without giving myself away, even if it prevents me from doing what I am supposed to do for my other master.
Oblivious to my inner worries, Drusus goes on. “Saevius, I need eyes and ears in my ludus.”
I nearly choke on the wine in my mouth, and barely croak the single word, “Dominus?”
“Like you, I have reasons to distrust someone within my own familia.” He’s speaking softly now, and before I realize it, I’ve leaned closer to hear him better. “I believe there’s someone who has been at work since well before your arrival, so I can be certain it isn’t you.”
I resist the urge to swallow nervously, and thank the gods Drusus cannot hear my pounding heart.
“One of the auctorati is here for more than just paying off a debt,” the lanista says. “I could have all of you killed on suspicion, but if there are messages leaving the ludus, then there’s someone outside it who’s involved. I’m not certain who, only that you’re not involved because the messages began before your arrival, and it’s most likely not Philosir either, since he hasn’t been here long.” He looks me in the eyes. “I’m charging you with finding out who within the familia is working against me.”
I moisten my parched lips. There’s no sense arguing with him. Now that we’ve had this conversation, I have no choice. I know about his suspicions, and therefore he won’t keep me in the ludus if he can’t trust me to keep that information to myself.
So it’s true, Drusus is no fool. Who better for him to ask than the newest member of the familia, who has no reason to be loyal to anyone except the man who put a tag around his neck?
Besides, perhaps, the nobleman who forged his papers, but Drusus does not and cannot know about that.
So I have no choice.
“All right.” I barely force more than a whisper past my lips. “I’ll watch and listen.”
“Good.” He picks up the wine jug. “More wine, Saevius?”
“Please.” I hold out my nearly empty cup. “And thank you.”
Drusus fills his wine and my own, and we drink in silence.
“May I ask something?” I say quietly after a while. “With respect, out of curiosity.”
Drusus nods.
“Were you a gladiator before you were a lanista?”
He doesn’t answer right away, instead looking into his wine cup and swirling it slowly, as if the answer to my question lies in the amber liquid. And while his wine and my question apparently fascinate him, his slender fingers around the cup fascinate me. As does everything about him, if I’m honest with myself. Fingers. Eyes. The way his lips purse just slightly while he mulls over my question.
I’m going mad. I truly am.
Finally, he says, “Do you respect me, gladiator?”
Not the answer I expected. “Yes, of course I do. As do all the men in the familia.”
He sits back. “Then does it matter if I’ve been a gladiator myself?” He raises his cup and makes a sweeping gesture with it before he brings it to his lips. “If my men respect me, and their opponents respect them as they rightly should, then I’ve succeeded as a lanista, have I not?”
“Of course.”
“And to the successful lanista,” he says, waving his hand, “comes money. Which is why I’m here.”
“I see.”
His gaze falters from mine. “Why do you ask?”
I’m silent for a moment, carefully choosing my words. “I’m only curious, I suppose, why a man would choose a life like this one.”
This time, it’s Drusus who is silent. He takes a sip from his cup, and his eyes are focused elsewhere so he doesn’t notice that I’m suddenly intrigued by his mouth as he rolls the wine around on his tongue.
Gods, Saevius. What’s the matter with you?
Drusus swallows his wine, and only then does he look at me again. “How long have you been a gladiator, Saevius?”
“Many years.” I pause, quickly adding, “Debts. My father’s debts have forced me to volunteer as an auctoratus ever since I was of age.”
“So you’ve only lived the life of a gladiator.” He sets his wine on the table beside him. His gaze is distant, almost haunted, as is his voice when he says, “I assure you, there are worse existences than one within a ludus or an arena.”
So now I am the eyes and ears of a lanista, and the eyes and ears of a politician and scorned husband.
Watching. Listening. Waiting. Even as I spar and train, I watch and listen, and I wait. It’s only a matter of time, after all, before Verina and her lover show themselves. Women, especially the wives of the wealthy and influential, surreptitiously come and go from the ludus, usually under the cover of darkness. Sometimes servants come, pay Drusus a handsome sum, and take one of us to a house or a villa elsewhere in the city. More often than not, a discreet room in a brothel. Nothing unusual there; women in Rome do the same thing. Especially after we’ve fought or trained, when we’re still battered, sweaty, and bloody. I’ve heard some of the lanistae make more money off us after the games than they do during. With the upcoming Ludi Appollinares, we’re probably conditioning as much for the women as we are for our fights.
Names are rarely spoken, but the men who’ve been in Pompeii awhile know one woman from the next. The wife of a local magistrate and her obsession with Carthaginian men and the odd Phoenician. The daughter of a respected senator and her penchant for the biggest, most dangerous brutes in the familia. A pair of wealthy vintner’s wives who are forever calling on men to be shared between them for a night.
Most of their husbands probably turn a blind eye. We’re slaves, after all, not freedmen or citizens, affairs with whom would be dangerously scandalous. But everyone is discreet nonetheless; the wives likely don’t speak of it and, outside the ludus, neither do we. Who would we tell? Only the auctorati ever leave the ludus alone, and when we do, we all know full well that bringing scandal upon the familia would result in great unpleasantness from our lanista.
Within the walls of the ludus, however, the men gossip like women about their encounters with the wives of Pompeii’s nobility, exaggerating details like soldiers telling war stories. They’ll even brag about a particular wife’s young child who looks nothing like her powerful, influential husband.
“Now that I’ve been with the Lady Aurelius,” Hasdrubal says, grinning broadly, “her husband will be lucky if she ever stays awake while he fucks her.”
“Lucky bastard,” someone mutters one night when a young novice is summoned. “The Lady Antonia is a right whore. She’ll leave him bloodier than the arena ever could.”
“Don’t know who she is,” another says after staggering back into the ludus shortly before dawn, “but that woman’s husband is a fool if he’s not bedding her every damned night.”
I’ve been sent to plenty of beds myself. Usually to a seedy brothel in the worst parts of the city. Places no one would ever come looking for a nobleman’s wife. Since I haven’t yet fought publicly in Pompeii, I’m rarely requested by name unless it’s a woman I’ve visited before, but that could change after the Ludi Appollinares.
And still, in between all the training and the visits to brothels to service the wives of Pompeii’s nobility, no one in the ludus breathes a word about the Lady Verina of Laurea.
Perhaps Calvus is mistaken. Maybe his wife is the only woman in Pompeii who hasn’t bedded a gladiator. Not one from this ludus, anywa
y.
Calvus has to know something. He’s not stupid. If he’s gone to the trouble of forging documents and sending in a slave—perhaps more than one?—he knows something. And if he’s this concerned, then her lover is likely not one of us. I can’t imagine a Roman man being surprised, let alone this enraged, over a tryst with a slave. One of the trainers, then? A medicus? Drusus himself? It could be anyone.
I haven’t been here long, though. The men probably don’t yet trust me enough for the most scandalous gossip, and there’s still plenty of time for the Lady Laurea to make herself—and her lover—known. I only hope Calvus can be patient while the men around me slowly lower their guard.
Drusus as well. Watching and listening on his behalf is nearly as fruitless, but not for lack of men talking. Men whisper amongst themselves. Messages pass from cell to cell if the men are literate, in hushed conversations in the training yard if they aren’t. The gods themselves probably can’t keep up with all the clandestine communication going on within the walls of this ludus, and there’s no telling what else goes on while the gladiators are off with the wives of Pompeii’s elite.
But just as there’s no word of the Lady Verina, I’ve heard nothing from the auctorati or anyone else about messages being sent from the ludus. And anyway, the only thing anyone talks about lately is the upcoming Ludi. Who might survive, who’s likely to die, whether the munerator prefers a fair fight. All of which, of course, depends on how much he’s paid Drusus. If the munerator has paid for fights to the death, then like any lanista, Drusus will deliver. Either way, at least some of us won’t be returning from the games. No familia ever enters and leaves a Ludi in the same numbers.
It’s nearly noon, and I’m sparring with Quintus while Lucius and Titus watch from the sides, when the ludus gates grind open.
Quintus and I both stop and look. So do all the other men in the yard.
Just outside the gate, several servants carefully lower three curtain-shrouded litters to the ground. From the litters, three obviously noble women emerge, dressed in pristine, colorful clothes that probably cost their husbands more than any one of us cost Drusus. The first has two very small children with her, a boy and a girl. The second carries an infant as she helps a young boy from the litter. The third has with her a boy of perhaps seven or eight. The older boy tugs his mother’s hand toward the yard, the sparkle of excitement in his eyes visible from here. The woman smiles down at him, saying something I can’t hear, and he laughs.
