The Left Hand of Calvus

by L. A. Witt

  “I’m fine.” I moisten my lips, my head suddenly lightening as the loss of blood catches up with me. “Just reopened wounds.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “We need to get you back to the ludus.”

  “What about Verina? And Drusus?”

  “The gods know where Drusus has gone.” He purses his lips. “Let’s go back and see about Verina, but then you need to see the medicus.”

  I nod, and we hurry back down the side street to the chaotic scene beneath the gaping hole in a second story wall. A frantic crowd has formed around the cart and the bloody, twisted woman who’s now completely motionless beside it.

  Arabo grabs my arm. “We have to get out of here.”

  I gesture at the cart. “But what about Verina?”

  He glances past me, shaking his head. “She’s dead. And this place is probably going to be overrun with Vigiles before long.” He shoves me toward another alley. “Let’s go.”

  I throw one last glance toward Verina, but she’s deathly still and as ghostly white as her dress. What little of her dress remains white, that is. There’s nothing more I can do for her, so I follow Arabo out of the marketplace.

  “Where would Drusus have gone?” I ask.

  “If he’s alive, he’ll come back to the ludus,” Arabo says “Nowhere else he can go.”

  “Unless he thinks they’ll come looking for him.”

  “Who?” Arabo looks at me. “Who is behind this?”

  I hesitate. “I don’t know for certain.”

  “And Lucius was involved.”

  “Him and Iovita.”

  Shaking his head, Arabo mutters, “Bastards.” He turns to me. “Do you think there are more of them? Among the familia?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Arabo says nothing for a moment. As the ludus comes into view up ahead, he lowers his voice. “The men cannot know Drusus is missing. The whole familia will fall into chaos.”

  “And they’ll likely kill me if I set foot in the ludus.”

  “Where else can you go?”

  I blow out a breath, but don’t have an answer.

  “It’s getting dark,” Arabo says. “We’ll go in the back, and I’ll make sure no one sees you.” He glances at my back, one eyebrow raised. “You’ll be going to the infirmary instead of your cell anyway.”

  “Do you really think I’ll be safe there?”

  “You will be if I pay off the medicus.” He glances at me, then adds, “Under the circumstances, I think Drusus would forgive us for using the ludus treasury.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I mutter. “What will you tell the men about Drusus?”

  Arabo’s quiet again. Then, “That he’s attending to a matter in the city, and that the men are to continue their training in his absence.”

  “Will they believe you?”

  Arabo walks a little faster. “Gods, I hope so. But it depends on how many of them are in on the plot to kill him and Verina.”

  “And if he turns up dead?” The thought sends a sickening shudder through me.

  “Then there’s little we can do.”

  I wince and curse as the medicus’s needle pierces my back once again.

  “Don’t move,” he says.

  “Then put some more of that tincture on it,” I grumble.

  He dabs a damp cloth against the wounds. I suck in a breath through my teeth.

  “You wanted more,” he points out, and removes the cloth. As he begins suturing again, the pain isn’t as fierce.

  “Still working on him?” Arabo’s tone is a mixture of concern and amusement. When I look up at him, his brow is knitted with far more of the former than the latter.

  “I’ll be fine.” I glance back at the medicus. “I hope.”

  “Your own fault for not letting him sew it up last night while it was still fresh, you fool,” Arabo says with weak amusement.

  “I didn’t want to wake him.”

  The medicus says nothing, just jabs the needle in with a bit more force this time.

  Arabo winces when I do, but doesn’t speak.

  Once the medicus has finished suturing and bandaging my back, and Arabo and I are alone, I whisper, “Any news?”

  “Lucius just returned.” He gestures at one of the windows looking out at the training yard below us. “On an undertaker’s cart. Beaten and bruised, just like the lot of us, but the side of his head’s smashed in and he took a blade across the throat.”

  My heart beats a little faster. “Think Drusus killed him?”

  “I hope so,” Arabo mutters. “Question is, where is he now?” He drums his fingers rapidly on the table. “He’s either been arrested or killed. Otherwise he’d have come back by now.”

  “There has to be more we can do.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Something other than waiting here for another cart to bring him back.”

  “I know,” Arabo says quietly. “In the meantime, the men have accepted my insistence that Drusus is in the city handling business matters, but they’ll only buy that for so long. If they catch wind he might not be coming back . . .”

  I exhale, but say nothing.

  Down below, whistles and catcalls replace the usual sounds in the training yard.

  “What in the name of the gods . . .” I stand, with Arabo’s help, and we both go to the window to look outside.

  One of the gate guards dwarfs a young woman as he escorts her across the yard. Her eyes are wide, her tiny shoulders bunched, and she watches the men warily. Rightfully so: she’s dressed and painted like a whore, and a yard full of dangerous brutes is no place for her.

  “Who is she?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Arabo says. “Stay here. I’ll go check it out.”

  He leaves, and it’s only a few moments later when he returns, the young woman walking timidly behind him.

  “She’s here to see you,” he says.

  “Me?” I look at her.

  She nods. “My name is Sidonia. I was sent to summon you.”

  “To where?”

  “My madam’s brothel.”

  I pick up the clean tunic Arabo brought me earlier. “I’m in no condition to service anyone. Take someone else.”

  Sidonia doesn’t move. “I was ordered to bring you and no one else. Mother Lucretia says you must come immediately.”

  I chew my lip. The same brothel where I’ve serviced wives, but also reported to Ataiun and, on one occasion, Calvus himself. Surely one or the other is waiting for me now.

  Arabo and I exchange glances.

  To the girl, I say, “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

  She gives a single nod and steps away.

  “She could have information about Drusus,” Arabo says in a hushed voice.

  I throw a wary glance at the girl. “Or she could be collecting and killing anyone involved in Verina’s death.” Or summoning me back to my original master.

  “So what do we do?”

  I gnaw my lower lip for a moment. “I don’t think there’s a choice. I have to go and see what she has to say.” Or what he has to say. But it could be something about Drusus. Gods, please . . .

  “You’re probably right,” Arabo says. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Thank you.” I wince and push myself to my feet. My back stings and burns as I pull on the tunic, and the sutures itch beneath the coarse linen, but scourged flesh will draw too much attention outside the ludus. Even inside the ludus.

  Arabo and I approach the girl, who is waiting for us by the window, staring out as she chews her thumbnail.

  “All right,” I say. “We’ll go.”

  Sidonia stiffens. “Not both of you. Only the one called Saevius.”

  Arabo and I glance at each other.

  “I’m not going without him,” I say. “He can wait outside the brothel, but there are too many men between here and there who might want us both dead.”

  “Fine,” she says. “But he does not come into the brothel.”

  “Agreed,” I
whisper, and wonder just what in the name of the gods I’m walking into.

  More than once, I consider turning back instead of following Sidonia. Arabo is nervous too; I can see it in the glances he throws me every so often. This could be a waste of time. It could be nothing at all. This was dangerous. Gods, what are we doing?

  But this woman, this madam, might know something of Drusus. Maybe he’s alive somewhere, and if he is, maybe she knows.

  Or it’s Calvus. It’s been so long since he’s summoned me, and now his wife is dead. He’s either here to demand answers, or he’s here to kill me.

  Fortune, Jupiter, anyone who might be charitable, please watch over me, and wherever Drusus is, watch over him.

  Before we left the ludus, Arabo gave me a small dagger, just in case. It’s tucked discreetly beneath my clothes, and I keep my thumb against the hilt just to reassure me it’s still there.

  We arrive at the brothel, and Arabo waits outside as Sidonia leads me in.

  The air is rich with perfumes and thick with sweat. Several of the whores lounge on pillows and furs in this room, drinking wine from gaudy cups as they wait for the next man in need of their services.

  “Mother Lucretia,” Sidonia says. “I’ve brought him as you requested.”

  “Leta,” the madam says sharply without looking up. “Be done with it.”

  One of the whores rises. Her dark hair falls over part of her face, obscuring most of her features. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me, just waves a hand and starts down the hall. She keeps her other arm tucked protectively against her side, and she walks with a slight limp. From this vantage point, she’s lovely—slight in the frame with a green silk dress clinging to her smooth, gently curving waist. It’s a wonder she’s not occupied with more lucrative matters than speaking to me, and I pity her whatever an enthusiastic man must have done to her to make her move so gingerly.

  And as she leads me down the hall, nerves prickle the back of my neck: who is waiting for me? Calvus. It has to be Calvus. I pray it’s Ataiun or any of Calvus’s other servants. Anyone but the man himself.

  I casually slide my hand over the dagger hidden beneath my tunic, making doubly sure it’s still there. Amorous sounds come from some rooms. From others, the low murmur of voices. One man roars loud enough to shake the building, but I can’t bring myself to be jealous of him or whoever he’s fucking. My body wouldn’t stand for it now anyway, and even if it would, worry weighs too heavily on me to feign lust for whomever offered the right amount of coin.

  The woman stops in front of a rickety wooden door that’s no different from all the others. She opens it, steps inside, and leaves it open for me to follow.

  A couple of oil lamps and a shuttered window offer just enough dim light for me to make out my surroundings and a few of its details. Our feet are silent on the thick furs carpeting the floor. I pull the door shut behind us, eyeing the shadows for any signs we’re not alone.

  Calvus isn’t here. Neither is Ataiun.

  I’m relieved, but confused. If they’re not here, then why am I?

  Looking at Leta’s back, I quietly say, “You had a message for me?”

  Slowly, she turns around, and with a slender hand, she pushes the fringe of hair out of the way and lets the flickering light illuminate her face.

  My knees almost buckle.

  The long, false hair and the painted skin aren’t enough to mask the familiar face, especially the blue eyes I’d know even at a thousand paces. It takes all the air in my lungs to whisper the single word: “Drusus?”

  “Yes,” he says just as softly.

  I approach slowly, cautiously, narrowing the space that separates us, as if one false move will jar me out of this dream, and yes, it’s him. It’s truly him. When we’re but inches apart, I force a breath into my chest as I reach for him. “Drusus, you’re . . . you’re—”

  “A woman?”

  “—alive.” I kiss him. He’s still for a moment, frozen in my arms, but then he sighs and surrenders to my kiss, sliding one hand up my arm while the other remains tucked against his side.

  Gods, he’s really here. He’s really alive. I let the taste of his mouth intoxicate me, and as I cradle his neck in one hand, I let the other carefully roam his body just to be sure he truly exists.

  Without his ever-present breastplate, the truth reveals itself in the softly curving waist beneath my palm and the gentle swell of breasts against my chest, and in my mind I see the woman I followed into this room.

  I draw back and look down at Drusus, letting my eyes confirm what my hands have already discovered. There’s no mistaking it.

  This is no disguise.

  “Drusus, I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

  “Your eyes don’t deceive you.” He—she sounds exhausted. Resigned. And still exactly like Drusus has always sounded, that voice that’s a note higher than a Roman man’s, and I realize now is just a note lower than a woman’s.

  Shifting her gaze away, she folds her arms across her chest, wincing as she moves her left arm.

  “But . . .” I moisten my lips. So many questions. So, so many questions. The one I finally speak is, “What are you doing here?”

  She looks at me, eyes wide like that wasn’t what she expected me to ask.

  I shift my weight. “What’s going on?”

  Drusus glances at the door through which we came. “Lucretia owed me a favor. She doesn’t know exactly what’s going on or that I am Drusus, only that she’s keeping me here as a favor. I came here because no one will think to look for me . . .” Her eyes dart downward at her clothing, and her cheeks darken. “No one will think to look for me here. Like this.”

  “But you wanted me to find you.”

  This woman before me nods and takes a deep breath, and when our eyes meet, I don’t understand how I’m looking at a woman. The piercing blue eyes are just as they’ve ever been, even if they’re ringed with kohl and framed by a wig. The very same blue eyes I saw when we sparred, when Drusus fought as well as any man could, when he stared me down in the pit, when he cut down gladiators twice his size and put lanistae in their place at the arena.

  And the voice, though it’s unsteady and quiet, is the same one I’ve known all this time: “Saevius, I need your help.”

  I shift again. “With . . .?”

  “I need . . .” She cuts herself off. Cursing under her breath, she steps back, and with some more cursing, the likes of which I’ve heard a thousand times at the ludus, she unpins the wig and pushes it off. My breath catches; though the body is still unmistakably that of a woman, the face is now even more the Drusus I thought was dead. A man . . . a woman . . . I don’t . . . I don’t understand.

  Rubbing his—her?—forehead, Drusus sighs. As he drops his hand to his side, he looks into my eyes. “First, you’ve got to believe me: Verina was not my lover. She never was. It was just safer to pretend she was.”

  “Safer?” I blink. “Safer than what?”

  He swallows. “Than letting anyone find out she was my mother.”

  “Your—” I slowly let my gaze drift downward, taking in Drusus as he is now, slender in silk and jewels. As I meet his eyes again, I whisper, “Statia.”

  He nods again. “I was, yes.”

  I slowly moisten my lips. “And Kaeso is your son.”

  “Yes, Kaeso—” His voice falters just slightly. “Kaeso is my son. And I need your help getting him away from my father.” He pushes a shaking hand through his short hair. “Now that my mother is dead, Kaeso is in danger, and I can’t . . .” He makes a frustrated gesture at the arm he’s holding against his side. “I can’t fight like this. I don’t know if I can get him out without getting us both killed.”

  “And he’s in danger?” I ask. “In your father’s house?”

  “There is no place in the Empire where he’s more in danger than in my father’s house. Mother was the only thing keeping him safe. Now that she’s gone, Father has no reason not to cast him out and the g
ods only know what might happen to him.”

  “But why? His own grandson—”

  “Bastard grandson,” Drusus says through tightly clenched teeth. “And whatever Father chooses to do with him now, it’ll be quiet and it’ll take Kaeso as far from Pompeii as possible, that much I can be sure of. Openly discarding or selling a child, even a bastard child, so soon after my mother’s death wouldn’t look good for a politician.”

  We’re both silent for a moment. I can’t imagine what Calvus would do to his own grandson, but he’s already had his wife killed. And somehow, his daughter, the mother of his grandchild, secretly became a lanista.

  “Forgive me, I . . .” I let my gaze drift down his body, then back to his face. “How did you become . . .”

  He takes a breath and squares his shoulders. “How did I become Drusus the lanista when I was born Statia of Laurea?”

  I nod.

  He chews the inside of his cheek, and then clears his throat. “We don’t have much time. Help me get dressed.” He nods toward the side of the room where his breastplate is propped against a pillow beside a folded gray tunic. “I can’t put it on myself. Not with . . .” He gestures at his arm. “Taking it off was one thing, but . . .”

  “You don’t have to explain,” I say. “You’re injured. I understand.”

  I pick up the tunic and breastplate.

  With his good arm, he reaches for one of the ties on his shoulder, and he hesitates. He glances down at his women’s clothes, and then his eyes flick up to meet mine. “Saevius, this . . .”

  “Drusus,” I whisper. “I’ll help you.”

  “I know, but . . .” He swallows.

  I set the breastplate and tunic on the furs beside me, and then walk around behind him. I gently push his hand away from his shoulder. “Let me.”

  He hesitates again, but finally lowers his hand. I tug at the tie, and it disintegrates into twin ribbons. On the other shoulder, the same.

  The thin, colorful silks fall away, sliding down before pooling at his feet.

  There’s no mistaking now what Drusus has hidden all this time. Slender shoulders. The sweeping curve of waist and hip that my hands slid over moments ago. When he turns slightly, the distinctly feminine swell of breasts is no longer concealed by leather armor. Even the violent bruises darkening his torso and the bandaged wounds on his side and shoulder can’t mask the soft, delicate shape any more than they did on the women who fought in the arena at the Ludi Appollinares.