A Gladiator's Tale

by Ashley Gardner

  The basketmaker’s wife was nowhere in evidence when I peered into the shop on the ground floor of Chryseis’s insula. Nor was the daughter, but the basketmaker himself was there, tidying away unsold wares.

  Baskets of all sizes, from tiny bowl and plate shapes to wide two-person baskets for hauling wood, hung from the walls or rested on the floor or the benches the basketmaker had just brought inside from the street.

  The basketmaker glanced briefly at me then went back to stacking small woven mats on a shelf. When I asked whether Chryseis was above, he only shook his head and waved my words aside, as though he did not understand them, muttering a few syllables of his own.

  Cassia stepped out from behind me, slid down a fold of her cloak, and began addressing the man in a language that sounded Greek, but not quite the same as what I’d heard her speak with Marcianus.

  The basketmaker jerked his head up, an expression of pleased astonishment unfolding across his face. He set aside the mats, and once Cassia finished, responded with enthusiasm. As Cassia continued the conversation, the basketmaker became eloquent. The two corresponded a long time, the basketmaker waving his hands for emphasis, while I, the ignorant Roman, watched in incomprehension.

  Finally, Cassia gave the man a smile and said a few final words, turning away after the basketmaker had answered. He was grinning as we departed, lifting a hand in farewell.

  “Chryseis is not at home,” Cassia told me as we approached the staircase that wound upward through the insula. “But he will say nothing if we go up and search her apartment.”

  She started for the tile-lined stairs, but I stepped in front of her. “A very long conversation for only that.”

  “He doesn’t speak much Latin, and usually lets his wife do all the talking. He was happy to converse with someone who understood his language.”

  “Greek.” I turned and started up the stairs. “There are plenty of Greeks in this city.”

  “Aeolian Greek,” Cassia said as we climbed. “It’s a different dialect from Ionic, which is what you mostly hear in Rome. Aeolian is spoken in Pergamum and on Lesbos.”

  “Is that your dialect?” I asked. “Aeolian?”

  “My father spoke both, as well as Doric and Achaean. He was very well-read. He came from Smyrna, which straddles the border of Ionia and Aeolia.”

  “Smyrna.” This was the first I’d learned of her heritage. I’d guessed her family came from the eastern end of the Mare Nostrum, but she’d never mentioned exactly where. Cassia’s father had already been a slave in a Campanian household when Cassia was born.

  “Yes,” Cassia answered without hesitation. “My father’s family is still there.”

  I had not heard Cassia’s entire history—how had her father been brought into captivity? What had happened to her mother? Did Cassia long to return to her father’s home, or had she given up the idea that such a thing would ever happen? Or had she adapted to Rome as so many of us had, and had no intention of living elsewhere?

  We could not discuss these things now as we climbed the many floors, the stairs deteriorating as we went. I added the ideas forming in my head to the ones I’d had earlier this afternoon.

  The upper landing where Chryseis lived was quiet, her door shut. The door opposite hers was open, but I saw no sign of the little girl I’d encountered there, nor heard anyone in the apartment beyond. They must fear no theft of their belongings while they were out. A glance inside revealed one low table and that was all. Perhaps they didn’t fear thieves because they had nothing to steal.

  Chryseis’s door had a lock, as I’d observed before. It was a sophisticated metal one with tumblers, very new. None of the other apartments we’d passed bore such locks.

  What I noticed most about it today was that it was unfastened, which made me uneasy. I doubted Chryseis would leave her door unbolted and wondered at the lapse.

  I cautiously opened the door, peering inside before I signaled Cassia to follow me. I saw no one, but I did not relax.

  The room we stepped into was square, with an ill-fitted door in the wall leading to a small balcony. A table and stools were the only furnishings, with a cabinet along one wall hiding its contents behind a coarse linen curtain. An unlit lamp reposed on the table beside a stack of unevenly made ceramic plates. I found nothing that indicated a woman of means lived here.

  Another room, a smaller square, was tucked behind the first. A bed reposed here—a wooden pallet with a straw mattress and blankets. Pegs held a line of tunics and stolae, well-made but unadorned.

  When I returned to the front room, I saw that the curtain had been folded partway back from the cabinet, and Cassia had pulled out a box of scrolls and tablets.

  Without a qualm, Cassia laid out the tablets and began to unroll and examine a scroll. I lifted the cloth from the other end of the cabinet and found cups and a small jar with one piece broken off—the missing piece lay beside it as though Chryseis meant to have it mended. She had towels both new and threadbare, and several baskets, most of which resembled those made downstairs.

  While Cassia read through the scroll, I stepped idly to the balcony.

  The wooden platform was just wide enough for me to stand on. The insula had been built on the side of the Aventine Hill where it began to be steep, and this balcony looked out over the rooftop of the insula next door.

  I could see down to the valley that held the green oval of the Circus Maximus. Chariot teams were just finishing training for the day, horses being led slowly away and practice chariots wheeled off by assistants to the great drivers.

  I thought I understood why Chryseis had chosen this apartment. Her belongings told me she was frugal to the point of meanness—with her wealth she could easily buy another jug to replace the chipped one. So high in the insula, these rooms would be cheap, but the view was marvelous, Rome rolling into the mists.

  Cassia gasped, and I turned quickly to the room. “What is it?”

  Cassia had opened the scroll all the way, her fingers holding down the papyrus as she read. “Chryseis owns this entire building. Why on earth does she live up here?”

  The view aside, I wondered as well. “She could have a large residence on the first floor, you mean.”

  Cassia let the scroll roll up on itself before she set it carefully back into its box. “From what I am reading, I’d guess because she can charge a high rent for those first-floor apartments. Why occupy them when tenants will pay for them? She doesn’t need much space, and she can collect rents on the more expensive rooms.”

  I recalled the furtive glance of the little girl across the hall. It must be unnerving for a poor family to live right next to their landlord, and by all accounts, Chryseis was not a compassionate woman.

  “Is there any clue there to where Rufus might be?” I asked. “Chryseis might have another house where he could be hiding.”

  Cassia closed the last tablet. “There is no mention of Rufus at all. Chryseis does own properties throughout the city—the warehouse and part of the ship Merope mentioned, two more insulae, and a few shops in the Subura.”

  I studied the shabby room with the cracks in its walls and no sign of comfortable furnishings. “Rufus must have thought he’d landed in luxury with her. A horrible disappointment for him.”

  “He might not be hiding from Aemil or a murderer, but from Chryseis herself,” Cassia said. “If she is not a warm woman, as you say.”

  I suppressed a shudder. “Not warm in the least. But if he hid from her, why not seek out Merope and Martolia?”

  “Because Chryseis would know how to find him there. She told you she knew where they lived.” Cassia began to lift the box of scrolls, but I took it from her and lugged it back to the cabinet myself. “Or perhaps Rufus does not care. He might be happy that his lady has looks and money, assuming that one day he will inherit that fortune.”

  I shoved the box where Cassia indicated and reached for the tablets she handed me. I opened one on impulse and studied the lines in the wax that appe
ared as random scratches to me.

  “Could you teach me how to read?” I asked abruptly.

  Cassia started, the hem of her tunic moving with her misstep. “You wish to learn to read?”

  By her tone, I might have told her I wanted to flap my arms and fly.

  “Why not? If Gnaeus Gallus ever requests me to work for him, it might be useful.”

  Gallus had been impressed that a gladiator had known so much about building sites. I’d been trained by a master builder long ago, before that master had been killed.

  Cassia lost her shock, her eyes lighting. “I would be happy to, Leonidas. I hadn’t thought you keen, but if you truly wish to learn …” She trailed off as though musing on the possibilities. “Certainly. You leave it to me.”

  I tucked away the tablets and rose as I lowered the curtain.

  “Let’s call on Marcianus,” I said. The way Cassia studied me was unnerving, and I began to regret my impulsive request. “He might have more to tell us.”

  I doubted it, but speaking to Marcianus was always soothing. He could put a reasonable and clear-thinking perspective on most events.

  We left the insula and made our way to his home past the fountain of the three fishes. Marcianus was not in, but Marcia was there.

  She admitted us, though she’d been locking up for the night. “He’s still at the ludus with poor Ajax,” Marcia told us. “Aemil and the gladiators will give him a funeral—no one else to do it. If Ajax had family, they are far from here.”

  “Did Marcianus discover anything else about how Ajax was killed?” I asked.

  Marcia shook her head. “Marcianus says you are suspecting a highborn woman of luring him in and killing him, but Ajax didn’t like highborn women. I remember him from when I worked in the Subura. He preferred plebs or slaves, he said. He didn’t want to be involved with senator’s wives—too dangerous.”

  “None of the lupinari he visited in the last days could have given him such a meal,” I pointed out.

  “No, but a highborn man could have,” Marcia said. “Ajax did like patricians—or rather, patrician’s sons.”

  “Do you know which ones?” I thought of the many domii and villas that marched up Rome’s hills. Difficult to search them all, if we even could.

  “He never mentioned names—he didn’t want to land them in scandal. More likely to keep himself from punishment than to spare the young men dishonor.”

  The information did help, I supposed, if only to tell us we needed to look beyond women like Domitiana and her daughter.

  “If you hear of anyone who favored him, please tell us,” I said.

  “Of course.” Marcia spoke with conviction, a strength she’d grown into.

  “But be careful,” I warned. “This person is ruthless.”

  Marcia flashed me one of her rare smiles. “I am no fool, Leonidas.”

  True, she had proved competent and calm. I comforted myself that Marcianus would keep her from harm and left it for now. We departed after Cassia bade her a gracious good night.

  The sky was darkening, residents of the neighborhood heading indoors. The cloud bank began to devour the sinking sun, plunging the street into gloom.

  Our route home took us past Chryseis’s insula once more. The basketmaker’s shop was shut, as was the coppersmith’s, boards bolted across the counters and over doors to lock out intruders.

  Something made me turn and enter the building. Cassia pattered after me without question, but I threw her an explanation.

  “I want to check one more time. Chryseis might have come home, and we can shake answers out of her.”

  I said we, but of course I would do the shaking and Cassia would make notes.

  We climbed the many stairs toward the top of the insula. The door across the hall from Chryseis’s apartment was still open but again, I sensed no one inside. Even the odors of food I’d smelled last time were gone.

  I opened the door to Chryseis’s rooms and halted so abruptly that Cassia ran straight into me. She untangled herself, peered around me, and sucked in a sharp breath.

  On the floor was Rufus. He was dressed in a plumed helmet, arm guard, and shin greaves, a sword on the ground next to him. He, like Ajax, had been cut into neat parts, all of them stacked tidily, with his head perched on top of the pile.

  A curse left my mouth, one so foul it blackened the air. Cassia, after her initial intake of breath, went very, very quiet.

  A footstep sounded behind us. In the next instant, a woman’s shrill and horrified scream rent the silence, echoing up and down the long staircase and all through the insula.

  Chapter 9

  I swung around to behold Chryseis, her lush hair tumbling across her shoulders, her beautiful eyes wide in her chiseled face. Her mouth was open, red and gaping, as she screamed and screamed.

  Voices sounded on the stairs, Romans braving the gathering darkness to discover what madness occurred above them. Chryseis continued to scream, the sound like a blade straight into my brain.

  Cassia swung from me and seized Chryseis firmly by the shoulders. “Stop!”

  Chryseis gasped, the noise ceasing, but her eyes remained fixed on Rufus, her breathing ragged.

  More voices, and then hurrying footsteps. Residents stared into the apartment, including the small girl from across the hall. I stepped in front of her to block her view of the grim scene.

  Astonished and horrified babbling began, those who couldn’t make a noise staring in shocked fascination. Too many people crowded the landing, those on the stairs below demanding to be told what was happening above.

  “It’s that gladiator,” one man called down to his neighbors. “He’s all cut to pieces.”

  “Rufus?” another man demanded. “Hades.” His gaze fixed on me. “Is that Leonidas the Spartan? Did you kill him, Leonidas?”

  “No,” I said tersely.

  “Leonidas never did this,” another man scoffed. “That woman took an ax to him, I’ll wager.” He pointed at Chryseis.

  Chryseis broke from Cassia, fell to her knees, and began keening.

  “Let me pass. Let me pass, pox take you.” The growling voice of authority came to us as a burly man with a breastplate over his tunic pushed his way to the landing. “Isis …” He breathed as he beheld Rufus, his ruddy face losing color.

  The man was a vigile, probably a captain of whatever house was on the Aventine. Behind him came another slim vigile I knew, by the name of Avitus.

  “Jupiter’s balls.” Avitus took in Rufus and swiftly turned away.

  The watch captain recovered himself. “Did she do it?” He pointed at Chryseis as her wailing continued.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “She did not expect to find him like this.”

  The captain pried his gaze from the corpse and Chryseis and fixed it on me. “What are you doing here? You’re Leonidas the Spartan, aren’t you? I thought you’d retired.”

  “I came to speak to Chryseis.” I debated what to tell him—would Aemil thank me for spreading the tale that his gladiators were being hacked to pieces and left in artful piles?

  Avitus stepped forward. He wore no breastplate, only a tunic and sandals. “Leonidas didn’t kill him,” he said with confidence. “He wouldn’t.”

  The captain frowned but apparently took another vigile’s word for it. “Send my men up here,” he ordered Avitus. “We’ll take her away with us.”

  “She had nothing to do with it,” I tried. I looked around for Cassia, but she’d slipped out in the melee.

  “Doesn’t matter. She’s a witness, and I can’t have her screaming in here all night. I’ll give her to the captain of the cohorts. If she’s innocent, she’ll be able to prove it.”

  I knew that wasn’t necessarily true, but I couldn’t stop him without fighting the other vigiles now streaming up the stairs, plus all the tenants who appeared pleased that Chryseis would be led away in shackles. I’d have to let the captain take her and decide how to help her in the morning.

&nb
sp; Chryseis’s reaction had not been feigned. Whatever she’d felt about Rufus, she’d not expected to see him dead.

  Another shriek sounded over the impatient snarls of the vigiles as they swarmed up the stairs, responding to Avitus’s summons.

  “You killed him.” It was Martolia, her words cutting into the room. “You killed him, you filthy bitch.”

  Martolia easily twisted past the men closing on Chryseis and seized the woman by the throat.

  I grabbed Martolia around the waist and hauled her from the still-wailing Chryseis. Martolia kicked and fought, but she was no match for my strength.

  “Someone shut her up,” the watch captain said in disgust, gesturing at Chryseis.

  One of his men sent a tight punch to Chryseis’s face. Her head lolled, her mouth closing as blood seeped from it. Chryseis didn’t fall senseless, but the blow dazed her, and she did not resist as two vigiles pulled her up and half dragged, half marched her to the door.

  Martolia collapsed in my arms and began to cry—heartrending, lamenting sobs.

  “Everyone out,” the watch captain bellowed. “Get this door bolted. Leonidas …” He turned to me, uncertainty in his eyes. “If that woman didn’t do him in, I’ll find out who did. Shouldn’t be difficult. Someone would have noticed him being carted in. Not enough blood for him to have been killed here.”

  The floor was quite clean, as was the body, just as Ajax’s had been.

  I disagreed that the vigile captain would find ready witnesses who’d seen Rufus’s body carried up the stairs. Romans saw nothing they didn’t want to. Whoever did this must have come in when Cassia and I had gone to Marcianus’s—a small part of an hour had passed at most. He’d have had to be quick, silent, and secretive.

  The basketmaker’s shop had been firmly shut when we’d returned, but the basketmaker might have witnessed the killer entering as he closed down for the night. My heart went cold. If he’d seen, and the killer realized it …

  I wanted to press back downstairs and make certain he and his family were well, but the staircase was crammed with the curious. Voices echoed in a constant babble.