It was a corroded piece of lead with a rusty nail hanging from it. “Huh.” She brought it over to him. “Look at what I found.”
Tag looked up at the thing she held in her hands. His eyes widened and he scrambled to his feet. “Where did you get that?”
She pointed. “It was half-buried by the well. Why, what is it?”
He was looking at the object in a funny way.
“Tag, do you know what this is?”
“You shouldn’t touch that.”
“Why?”
“It’s a curse tablet.”
She looked down at it. “How do you know?” She brushed the dirt away and turned it over. If she held it in the light a certain way, she could see letters scratched onto the surface. Curious, she tried to read them. A lot of the writing was rubbed away, but she caught the sense of it. Haltingly, she read aloud what she could decipher:
“ … may he be consumed by flames and choked by poison vapors.
May Mephistis steal his breath, rot his lungs from the inside.”
She looked up. “By the gods, somebody was very angry at this person, wasn’t he?”
Color had drained from Tag’s face. “Was there a nail attached?” he asked.
She nodded but then realized it was gone — it must have fallen out.
“Put that away where you found it,” Tag said. “Curse tablets are dangerous, destructive magic.”
“I’m sure the person who made this is long gone — and maybe his victim too. Doesn’t that mean the curse has lost its power?” she asked, quickly returning the tablet, throwing dirt over it, and backing away.
“I hope so,” Tag said, still agitated. He turned toward her. “Why did you ask me out here, Lucia?”
What could she say? She rubbed the dirt off her hands, unable to look at him. It wasn’t as if she could just say that she wanted to see him alone because she couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him, could she? How could she admit that she wanted to know if she would always respond like that to a kiss, or whether it was just him that caused her to feel that way? Secretly, she’d hoped he would sweep her up in his arms and kiss her the moment he saw her in private. But instead, stupidly, she’d sent them on a hike.
When she didn’t answer, he sighed and said, “Well, I should probably be heading back.”
She didn’t want him to leave yet. “Tag, you know I’ve never seen you as a slave, yes?” she asked, leaning forward.
He blinked. “That is … nice. But I am one.”
She flushed. “No, that’s not what I’m trying to say.”
He raised his eyebrows, waiting. She snatched at leaves from a nearby bush in irritation — at herself, at him. “I am not free either. Like you, I don’t have any say in what happens in my life —”
He laughed. “Are you comparing your situation to slavery? Your limitations are nothing like being a slave.”
“But they are close. I am being purchased, essentially, simply because some rich old man has decided he’s bored. I have no say in this transaction with Vitulus. No say about who will ‘own’ me, where I will live, whether I want children — anything, really. I’m going to be used like a shiny new amphora and then tossed away.”
He rubbed his face in irritation. “Fine. You are not free. But you are not anything like a slave.”
“Well, no matter what I say or do, I can’t get out of marrying Vitulus, so I might as well be one,” she said.
He shook his head. “Poor little rich girl,” he mumbled.
Her throat constricted and her eyes stung hot. This was not how she’d wanted this to go. “I am not a poor little rich girl,” she shot back, frustration turning into anger. “I am being sold and used, and I don’t like it.”
“But you are still free,” he insisted. She opened her mouth to argue, but he put his hands up. “Look, I don’t have the luxury of having a philosophical discussion about the nature of freedom. As a slave, it means only one thing to me — no longer being owned by another human being.” He turned away. “And now I need to get back.”
“Wait.” She swiped at her eyes.
He sighed. “Lucia. Did you really bring me out here so that you could lecture me on how you marrying a rich man is like me being a slave?”
“No. I brought you out here because … because I wanted to kiss you again,” she mumbled, looking at her feet.
He took in a breath. When she peeked up at him, she saw that his eyes were wide and his mouth was open in surprise. Focusing on his lips made her blush, so she looked down again.
She felt him move in closer. Her breath hitched. A sudden thought made her blood run cold. Maybe he hadn’t enjoyed kissing her as much as she’d enjoyed kissing him. Maybe there was a slave girl he loved, and he was only obeying his domina, like all slaves must.
She snuck another look at him. He didn’t look disgusted or forced. He looked … hungry.
Tag put his hand to her cheek, his thumb lightly brushing across her bottom lip. She could not get enough air into her lungs. He made a small strangled sound and leaned down to put his mouth on hers.
Quintus came to the medical room on his way to the training yard and paused in the doorway. “Are you ready?” he asked Tag.
“Yes, let me just put these herbs away,” he said. When the jars were secured, he untied his belt, pulled his tunic over his head, and reached for the wide gladiator belt he’d left on a hook.
“You know, you look more suited to posing for statue carvers than being a healer or a fighter,” the patrician said. “Except for those lashes on your back. What a shame to mark a body such as yours.”
Tag ignored him. Quintus always seemed to be goading him in some way, almost as if he was seeing how far he could push him to react so that he could have Tag punished for being disrespectful. Well, he would not fall for any of it. “Let’s go,” he said after buckling the belt.
“Wait,” Quintus said, stepping into the room. He pulled something from behind his back. “I have something for you.” He held a leather-bound box out to Tag.
Tag blinked. “I don’t understand.”
Quintus flushed. “It’s a gift. For what you did the other day. You know, for saving me from Hamilcar.”
Tag bit back the response that came to his lips — that he hadn’t done it to save him, but to avoid getting whipped again. Not to mention to avoid having to treat Hamilcar and multiple gladiators who would’ve been lashed for hurting the master’s special guest. “A gift is not necessary, Dominus,” he said.
Quintus shoved the box toward him. “Open it.”
Tag took it from him and rubbed his hands over the smooth leather. He’d never owned anything so fine. Creaking the box open, he gasped at what was inside: an array of the finest surgical equipment he’d ever seen. Light from the oil lamp gleamed on bronze scalpels, forceps, bone levers, scissors, probes, needles, clamps, and bone cutters. There were even two small cups for collecting blood during bloodlettings. He touched a particularly fine scalpel. “I cannot accept this,” he whispered.
Quintus was grinning like Castor coming upon the small monkey in the marketplace. “Of course you can. I thought this might please you. And it pleases me that you are pleased. But you must know that I also offer this gift not just because you saved me,” he continued, “but because I’m determined to prove to you that I am actually not the odious person you seem to think I am.”
Tag ran his fingers alongside the shining metal instruments, barely hearing him. He suddenly wished someone was injured or hurt so that he could test these fine instruments on real flesh.
Someone shouted their names from outside, and Tag jumped.
“We have to get out there,” Quintus said.
“Thank you for such a fine and generous gift, Dominus,” Tag said, closing the box and placing it on top of his warped wooden one. He walked out of the room toward the training area. It took him a moment to realize Quintus had not followed him. He looked back and saw the patrician staring at the floor while rubbing
the back of his neck. What a strange little man.
Titus, the second overseer, glared at them when Quintus caught up. It was clear he hated working with the beginners. “Nice of you to join us, ladies.” Turning to the rest of the men in his group, he roared, “Before we begin, let us repeat the oath all gladiators must take.”
“We kill with honor; we die with dignity,” Tag and the men grumbled. Dying with dignity, Tag knew, was even more important than killing with honor. A gladiator who begged to be spared shamed his school.
Titus pointed to a basket of wooden swords. “Grab your rudis and face your palus,” he barked, gesturing to the man-sized wooden stakes upon which they would practice their sword strokes. “Let’s start with an easy warm-up. Undercuts and overcuts, high and low, two hundred fifty times with each hand. Start with the right. Opposite leg out. Remember to switch your front leg when you change hands.”
Tag was always surprised at how heavy the rudis was. The training swords were weighted with a strip of metal on the inside, which helped fighters gain strength quickly.
Quintus, as expected, took the heavily nicked pole next to Tag. “I bet I’ll finish before you,” he said.
I bet you won’t.
“Let’s go,” Titus yelled, looking at him and Quintus. “Undercuts and overcuts, high and low. I want to see your form.”
Tag attacked his palus with a fury. The gods had seen fit to give him this chance to prove himself, and he would take it for all he was worth. He quickly found his rhythm, ignoring the pain of the scabbed-over lashes that stretched and tore as he swung. It had been weeks since he’d trained in Rome, and it felt like he was starting over now, but he knew his body would adjust quickly.
The thump-thump of wood on wood echoed in the training yard. He paused to switch the rudis to his left hand, surreptitiously trying to catch his breath.
“No breaks!” roared Titus. “Go!” Then to Quintus, “Speed it up, princess. Everyone else has already switched hands.”
As Tag swung, he couldn’t help but glance over at the patrician, whose face was red with exertion. Sweat poured off the still-oiled curls pasted to his forehead. Tag almost felt sorry for him. He really had no business here.
When everyone had finished with the palus, the overseer sent them to the end of the yard, where thick, sanded logs waited for them. Tag groaned silently as Titus explained that they had to pick up a log and run with it across the sandpit and back.
As Titus instructed them on squatting correctly (“Use your hips and thighs, not your backs. That’s where your strength is.”), Tag glanced at Quintus, who had his face turned upward. He followed his gaze and caught his breath. Lucia stood on the viewing balcony, leaning on the wooden barrier that extended over the training yard. In the afternoon light with her hair shining, she looked like a nymph rising from the sea.
He must have made a sound, because Quintus turned to him with a curious expression. “I believe that the pretty lady is looking for someone,” Quintus said, watching Tag very carefully. “And it could only be me.”
They both looked up again, but she was gone. Tag forced himself to shrug as if he didn’t care.
So, have you stopped seeing your amazing kisser like you promised?” Cornelia asked as they toured the rooms she and Antyllus were having painted with new frescoes. The three men working on the wall in the triclinium bowed to the lady of the house without interrupting their rhythm. One worker spread plaster with a wide trowel while another used a thick brush to paint large swathes of the wall a brilliant red. A third painter used a detail brush to add white architectural touches to a nearly completed section. The room reeked of the chalky, earthy smell of wet plaster and male sweat.
“Tell me again about the scenes you are having painted here,” Lucia said, ignoring the question. She wasn’t about to tell her they snuck kisses in the woods at every opportunity.
Cornelia smirked and gave her a sidelong look. “Well, there is my answer. Let’s see, on this side, Ixion is being tied to a giant, fiery wheel. On that one, Prometheus will be bringing fire to mankind, and on that one, Sisyphus prepares to move the boulder up a hill.”
“Oh, it’s going to be so lovely,” Lucia said distractedly.
Cornelia laughed. “Lovely isn’t what we’re going after. We want new and interesting.”
“Yes, of course,” Lucia said, wondering what Cornelia thought of the fading, cracked frescoes in her house. Her father never saw the need to invest in anything except new fighters.
They left the triclinium and headed for the peristylium garden. Cornelia, with both hands rubbing her belly, said, “You know, even Antyllus thinks Quintus would be a better match for you than Vitulus. Are you at least trying to entice the man?”
Lucia sighed. How could she think about anyone but Tag? Her desire to be near him, her ardor for kissing him — for touching him — had only increased with every contact. But it wasn’t just that. They complemented each other. When they went for walks, she showed him unusual fauna or flora, and he pointed out the medicinal uses of what she had thought were just weeds. Sometimes, she even helped him collect rare herbs and plants — in between kisses, of course. With Tag, the woods had become more magical than they had ever been.
She swallowed, thinking about seeing Tag the day before in the training yard. The image had been seared into her mind — his body, bathed in sweat and gleaming in the sun, with a sword in one hand. He’d looked like a bronze statue of a young god come to life. She could barely think of anything else.
“I hope the painters finish soon so I can show the frescoes off at a small dinner party I am hosting in a few days,” Cornelia said. “Which, of course, you are invited to.”
“Hmmm, mmmm,” Lucia said noncommittally.
“Well, I think you will want to come, because a special guest is attending.”
Lucia took a couple of steps before she registered what Cornelia said. She stopped and grabbed her friend’s arm. “Pliny? Pliny is coming?”
Cornelia looked down at the floor and away. “Well, I — The special guest is a surprise. But you must come. Do you promise to come?”
“Of course!” Lucia squeaked. “When? Oh, I need to gather my notes. Did you notice the tremors we had last night? I’ve heard some of the grape harvesters on the mountain are saying that the vines are dying from the inside out, which they’ve never seen before. And … and that on the wharf, they’re saying that the fishing is almost nonexistent around the bay. It’s as if all the fish have left the area! Can you imagine? Oh, I need to write all this down and fine-tune my theory for him —”
“Lucia …” Cornelia began, a frozen smile on her face.
Lucia hugged her friend. “Oh, you are so wonderful. Thank you.”
Cornelia opened her mouth, then closed it. “The dinner is the evening after next. Come in the morning to dress and to prepare with me. We will make a day of it, yes?”
“Yes, yes! But, oh, I can’t be still now. I must go home and get my notes in order. I can’t believe this is really happening!” She kissed her friend’s cheek. “You don’t mind if I go now, do you?”
Cornelia shook her head.
Lucia grinned, squeezed her friend’s hand, and dashed toward the front of the house, calling for her attendant.
* * *
After reviewing her notes, Lucia could not sit still. Was she really, finally going to meet her hero? She decided perhaps some fresh air might help her relax.
She had planned to stroll by the impluvium, the rain pool, until she spotted Quintus sitting on a stone bench in the atrium, reading beside a giant potted fig tree. Lucia stepped behind a column before he could catch sight of her. Despite Cornelia’s insistence that she should flirt with the man, she just couldn’t bring herself to —
“Are you spying on me, lovely Lucia? And here I thought you were trying to avoid me.”
She stepped away from the column, her face flaming. “I … I wasn’t spying,” she said.
“Your shyness is
adorable,” he said. “Come sit with me.”
She swallowed a sigh of irritation and took a seat opposite him. “What are you reading?”
“Strabo.”
She blinked. Her father didn’t have any of the great geographer’s scrolls, though she had pleaded mightily for some of them over the years. “You brought your own copy?”
He nodded. “Yes, I have all of his Geographica. I must have some educated reading at hand, or I will go mad in this hellhole.”
She marveled at his ability to leave her speechless. How was she supposed to respond to someone who called her home and her father’s livelihood a “hellhole”?
He cleared his throat. “Here Strabo talks about a visit to a region in Phrygia where there is a huge swath of land with no trees. It’s filled instead with the vines that produce Catacecaumenite wine.”
“Is that a good wine?” she asked.
He laughed. “It is one of the finest indeed, but really only enjoyed by those with refined tastes. I imagine you’ve never had it. Perhaps I’ll introduce it to you someday. I could have it sent over from the villa. Although one taste of that, and you’ll have a hard time going back to the swill you’re used to.”
She shook her head. “No, really. It isn’t necessary —”
He snapped his fingers at a passing servant. “All this talk of wine has made me thirsty,” he said, barking at the slave, “Bring us wine and food.”
“Yes, Dominus,” the old woman said, which made Lucia bristle. Quintus was not dominus of this house. But she bit her tongue.
“This is interesting,” he continued, reading aloud: “The surface of the plains is covered with ashes, and the mountainous and rocky country is black … Some conjecture that this resulted from thunderbolts and from fiery subterranean outbursts, and they do not hesitate to lay there the scene of the mythical story of Typhon.”
Curses and Smoke Page 9
