by H. B. Ashman
My revenge. Her grip around the plate tightened. It would have snapped if it weren’t made of metal. He was a good politician, she thought as she took her first bite. He knew how to motivate her. Revenge was maybe the only reason she was still alive.
“Before I forget,” he said, reaching over to the sack. Amalia watched as he pulled out a rolled-up scroll.
“You got it!” Amalia said, which made Arminius smile.
“Of course. Primus has prepared trunks with your other belongings to be sent to me. The jewelry, clothes, and money Marius left you. I will safeguard your things until your release.”
“Thank you, Arminius. Seriously.” He truly had been her lifeline.
Deep in thought, she played with the necklace Marius had given her, gently tapping its bronze pendant against her lower lip. Maybe she should tell Arminius about the Germanic woman at the shore. She could trust him, she had no doubt about that, but would he think her insane? What if the conversation led to her time travel or, even worse, to Amalia’s secret pact with the witch to “free herself,” which no doubt referred to her current predicament. What the witch had said about the goddess still made no sense—maybe Arminius would know. What did she have to lose?
“Arminius,” she mumbled.
“Hmm?” He looked up at her.
“There is something I need to tell you. Something I’ve kept from you.” She waited to see his reaction. Surprisingly, he smiled, looking relived.
“So have I, actually,” he said.
She scratched her cheek. “Really?”
He nodded. “Something from my past. I had forgotten about it at first. But then the memories came back. I am still missing most of it, but one thing is as clear to me as the sky above.”
Amalia was glued to his lips. “What is it?”
“The bloody symbol. The one on the scroll. I have seen it before.”
“You have?” She frowned. “Where?”
Arminius mirrored her frown, as if the words were painful. “In Germania. A long time ago. I was just a boy . . . taken by Rome. Remember I told you about that?”
Amalia nodded.
“Most of the memories are blurry, but some of them came back to me. The night I was taken, I remember an old seer being there at the lake. She had that symbol on her forehead, the one from the scroll.”
The loud bang of her metal plate hitting the ground rang in their ears. Amalia shot to her feet.
“Are you sure?” she questioned him, louder than intended.
He nodded. “Yes. By Jupiter, Amalia, are you all right?”
She slowly lowered herself onto the bed as she grabbed its wooden frame with both hands. The woman from the beach . . . she’d been there when Arminius was taken by Rome!
“That can’t be a coincidence,” she mumbled. Arminius had always talked about how the gods had sent her to him. Was there something to it after all? “What does the symbol mean? Who is she?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Arminius said, his voice sounding troubled. “But whoever she was, she was a seer chosen by the gods and granted power. Power to use against Rome. To destroy it. She is an enemy of my people.”
Amalia looked away, then nodded. She couldn’t tell him that she’d not only met the woman but had come to an arrangement with her. But it wasn’t like she was asking Amalia to do anything against Rome. All she was asked to do was free herself—for whatever reason. And yet it was better to keep him out of the loop. Amalia would come up with a plan to make good on her agreement with the seer. It was an insane idea, one he wouldn’t like.
“Are you visiting tomorrow during the games?” Amalia changed the subject. His face brightened. Arminius had been visiting her during the time when the city of Rome vibrated under the cheers and screams of the chariot races at the Circus Maximus. Even at the outskirts, where her prison was located, she could hear the massive crowds. Apparently, the Colosseum was not built yet, but chariot races were more popular than gladiator games anyway. According to Arminius, they were just as brutal.
“Of course. We shall listen to them together. Flamma is riding again,” Arminius said.
“Flamma.” Amalia tilted her head. “Has he really never lost?”
“Not once since Lucius Ahenobarbus bought him with every penny he had.” Arminius crossed his arms. “But he is an incredible fighter. With the sword and behind the horses. Believe me, I wish he would lose. I hate the thought of Lucius getting richer and more popular with the masses for entertaining them with Flamma. What is Rome but its people, and he who has the people—”
“Is Rome,” Amalia finished for him. “Flamma is really that good, huh?”
“Even Augustus has tried to buy him from Lucius. And he is not the only one. People think the gods are behind a fighter like this. A powerful tool if used correctly. Just what Augustus needs. People have been whispering of a curse after Marius’s death.”
Amalia soaked it all in, then rose with a smile on her lips. “I’ll try to sleep a little bit.”
Arminius stood instantly, grabbing her plate from the floor to put it onto the table for her. “Do that. I shall see you tomorrow for the race.”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
She watched Arminius leave, a smile on her face until the door shut behind him. Her smile vanished. Tiberius was back. He had promised to come to her as soon as he could. All she had to do now was wait a little longer.
She sighed as she walked back to her little window. What Amalia would ask of Tiberius was probably more than he’d be willing to give. But she had to try. She had to hold on to the hope that she could see her son and Marius again.
Like every night when she was all alone in her cell, Amalia stared out the window, lost in her thoughts—some of them were beautiful memories of the people she loved, while others cut her like a knife.
Amalia lowered her gaze and stared at the scar the seer had left on her wrist. She ran her finger over the scab.
“Free yourself . . . for all of Rome to see . . . it is what our goddess demands,” Amalia chanted the words as she had done countless times before. And every time she did, she believed them even more.
Amalia was sitting at the table, staring out the window, when she heard footsteps banging against the stone floor outside her room. This was followed by shouts from the other prisoners on her floor, begging for mercy. Moments later, a soldier tore her door open, revealing Tiberius. He was dressed in a white toga, just like Arminius’s. Not the imperial purple that Amalia had hoped to see him in, but still a symbol of a higher status than when he had fallen from Augustus’s good graces.
Amalia rose to her feet and tried to pat down the creases in her worn dress, but Tiberius strode straight up to her and kissed her on both cheeks. His eyes were red and swollen as if he’d just been crying. His gaze fell onto Amalia’s necklace, the piece of Marius’s shield. He stared at it for a moment, then shook his head and walked over to the small window.
“I loved him so,” he said, grabbing the bars. He looked out onto the street. She knew he meant it. Marius had stood by him when nobody else had.
“I know.” Amalia lowered herself back onto her chair, unable to stand any longer as if she were absorbing his grief into herself.
“Tiberius.”
He turned to face her.
“I did not kill Marius.”
Still gripping the bars, Tiberius shook his head. “Of course not. This whole trial . . . it is insanity.” He let his hands fall beside him and walked over to her. “I will have no more of it, I promise you. Today I will talk to Augustus. My mother seems to have cast her spells and convinced him to make me praetor of Germania. Marcus Vincius does not seek another term there.”
Amalia nodded. It only made sense. Marcus Vincius had been praetor in Germania for the last few years. He had settled disputes and calmed the raging tribes Lucius had left behind with his cruelty. Under Marcus, Germania had remained largely peaceful, and many other forts had been constructed along the Germanic border on the R
hine. But now Marcus Vincius wanted to be praetor no more. Not in Germania, not elsewhere. The loss of Marius had changed the former proud and mighty senator into a withdrawn man, tolerating the company of only a very few, Augustus and Arminius among them.
“Will you accept the position?” Amalia asked. In her heart, she wanted him to take it. He would be a kind and just praetor. Not only did she pity the tribes for the horrors the wars with Rome had inflicted on them, but she also couldn’t deny a certain connection to the wild lands and people the Romans struggled to possess.
“Yes. If I do well, it might heal some old wounds and make him trust me again, or at least despise me less. But first I will beg for your release.”
Amalia shook her head. “That’s too dangerous, Tiberius. I can’t let you do that.”
He twisted his lips. He knew exactly what she meant. He was barely a senator again. Making demands from Augustus was dangerous given his tenuous position. His mother was as cunning as she was pretty, but she, too, had her limits with Augustus—even if only a few.
“I have to, Amalia. I promised Marius I would take care of you. He is watching me, I know it.”
Amalia walked past Tiberius and over to the window to look out at the street. It was buzzing with life. Like cattle, people were flocking from the farthest corners of the city to make their way to the Circus Maximus for the chariot race and games that would take place later in the day.
“There is another way you could help me,” Amalia finally said, her gaze fixed on the throng below.
“I will try my best,” Tiberius promised, curiosity in his voice.
There was no need to beat around the bush. She had to move forward with her plan. It was the only way. She had assessed all other possibilities. Free yourself for all of Rome to see. But how was a prisoner supposed to do that? She saw only one option. One that was as common in ancient Rome as its whores and corrupt senators. One that had the might of the people behind it, which was the only force that had the power to defy the senate and its emperor:
The arena.
Amalia turned and faced Tiberius, her gaze intense and wide. “I want to fight Flamma for my freedom.”
Tiberius’s head twitched as if he hadn’t heard right. Then he frowned. Finally, his lips curled into a grin, followed by a loud, short laugh. “Impossible,” he blurted out, throwing up his hands. “Out of the question.” He shook his head as he rested his hands on his hips. Amalia was not surprised by his reaction.
“Why is it? We can say the gods will prove my innocence through my victory. Prisoners are free to ask it. They do it all the time!”
Tiberius drew his eyebrows together. “Yes, and they lose. Flamma is undefeated. As a gladiator as well as charioteer. Last week he killed five of Rome’s best riders before the chariot race had even finished.”
“Then I won’t race him. I’ll fight him in close combat.”
“People want to see him race, and the people get what they demand.”
“Very well, then I will race at first. Then I’ll somehow get him off his chariot. I can defeat him in short-range combat, I know it.” She didn’t sound as confident as she wanted to. How could she? Somehow get him off his chariot? How? And yet she had to try. It was her only hope of seeing her son and Marius again. David had killed Goliath when the whole world was laughing at him. Her chances were very low, but not entirely zero.
“No,” Tiberius said firmly.
“Why? Because I’m a woman? Weak and helpless?” Amalia couldn’t keep her frustration from her voice.
“That is not it,” Tiberius said, waving a hand in the air like he was shooing away her suggestion. “I know about the Germanic woman’s strength. I have been to Germania, fought there, seen your women swing a sword and axe on the battlefield just as bravely as your men. And we have had gladiatrices in the arena before. The crowds are rather entertained by them.”
“Then why won’t you help me? It’s the only way. You won’t have to ask Augustus for much. Most of the prisoners in Rome fight in the games. And if I win, all the better for him. A victory against Flamma, provided by Augustus. The masses will think the gods have blessed him again.”
Tiberius ran a hand over his forehead. “And what if you lose?”
“I won’t.”
Tiberius opened his mouth, but then shut it again.
“Freeing me behind the senate’s back is too much for you to ask of Augustus. With Marius’s death, his position is fragile right now. But if I win my freedom in the circus like prisoners have for hundreds of years, then Augustus will be forced to grant it because the people will demand it. I can defeat Flamma. I know it.” This time she sounded confident. She clenched her fists and stepped closer. “I know it,” she repeated. “All I need is a chance.”
Tiberius sighed, almost as if he were in pain.
“Why not fight someone else?”
Amalia had considered that as well. “I’m accused of killing Rome’s most beloved general and heir. I have to shoot for the stars to gain back my freedom. Besides, my enemies in the senate might oppose it if they think I have an actual chance at winning.”
Tiberius stared at the floor in silence. Then he shook his head. “Marius would never allow it.”
“Marius is dead,” she countered. “Killed by a coward who hides in the shadows of this city. I owe him revenge, and I will get it or die trying. Besides, I’m running out of time in here and you know it.”
The room was dead silent. Tiberius looked at her, his eyes narrowed in a mixture of pity, pain, and—defeat. He rubbed his temples. “This is madness.” His voice was so low that Amalia wasn’t sure he was even talking to her.
“You agree?” she clarified.
Tiberius nodded hesitantly. “But I have a request in return.”
“Anything,” she said, hope rising in her chest.
“You do not fight alone. I doubt you even know how to steer a chariot.”
That was very true. She nodded. “I will fight beside whoever is insane enough to do this with me.”
Tiberius lifted a single eyebrow. “Good, because I think I know the perfect person.”
Tiberius strode quickly down the palace’s great marble hallways to catch Augustus and his mother Livia before they would make their way through the lavish gardens of the palace and to the imperial box of the Circus Maximus. The circus was built right behind the palace, so Augustus had a private path constructed that would provide his family with quick and easy access to the games. And Flamma’s fights were not to be missed.
Tiberius felt a tingling wave of adrenaline as his feet moved quickly over the priceless, colorful mosaics depicting Rome and the gods. He made it to the main garden’s white terrace, his eyes scouting for his targets, but all he found were slaves cleaning the pools and trimming the hedges. He mumbled under his breath and turned to one of the guards.
“Where is my mother and Augustus?”
“At the games.” The soldier pointed in the direction of the voices and cheers coming from the Circus Maximus. Tiberius frowned. He was too late. His chance of talking to Augustus in private was gone for the day. But maybe that could play in his favor. Unlike Tiberius, who had seen Amalia throw Marius to the ground with his own eyes, the senate did not know of Amalia’s fighting skills. They knew about the fighting Germanic women, but even among those she was superior, unlike anything he had ever seen.
Tiberius made his way through the gardens and over the small bridge that led to the imperial box in the circus. With every step he took, the noise of the crowd grew louder.
He made it halfway over the bridge when he saw the smooth white rock façade of the imperial box shimmering under the sun. To the left and right of it were the towering walls of the circus.
Tiberius stopped and took a deep breath. Soon he would plead his case to have the most powerful killer in all of Rome fight a Germanic woman and prisoner.
He smiled at the thought of his mother’s face when he presented his request to Augustus. At least
he had that.
The Circus Maximus was filled from bottom to top, an ocean of humans. Tiberius did not see a single empty seat. All two hundred and fifty thousand were taken by men and women screaming for Flamma.
He saw Augustus in the middle of the imperial box, high on his marble throne. To his left were Livia, Julia, Antonia, and Domitia. To his right were Marcus Vincius and Caesoninus, two of his most trusted friends and advisors.
Tiberius squeezed by several of the senators sitting behind the imperial family—including Lucius Ahenobarbus and Publius Varus—when someone grabbed his arm. He turned around to find Arminius, a serious look on his face.
“Not here,” Tiberius mumbled to him as he caught Lucius’s curious gaze. Arminius nodded, then sat back down as Tiberius moved on under the watchful eyes of Lucius.
Loud cheers suddenly erupted. Flamma had just maneuvered his red-and-gold chariot to force another chariot into the wall of the arena. It splashed into pieces. The rider launched into the air, then hit the ground hard, his body twisted and motionless.
“Tiberius!” Lucius shouted.
Tiberius saw Livia turn, her face brightening at the sight of her son.
“How wonderful of you to join us,” she said, pointing at an empty seat next to Marcus. “Come sit.”
Augustus nodded at Tiberius as if giving him permission.
“You missed most of it,” Livia said, her sparkling eyes focused on the racing tracks of the colossal arena.
Tiberius took his seat and watched the race for a moment. Flamma was about to swing his famous metal mace. It was custom made, as long as a spear, its spikes as sharp as knives. The crowd cheered in anticipation and jumped from their seats when the weapon smashed into the head of an Egyptian charioteer dressed like a pharaoh—white skirt, bare chest, and golden snake as a crown. It was all part of the spectacle. They were only four laps in, and only two charioteers remained—Flamma and an Iberian former soldier. Their chariots thundered over the dusty tracks, the horses galloping as if they knew that their lives depended on it.
