Curses and Smoke

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  She sat forward. “Really? You just said that they grow fine wines there, yet he makes it sound as if the whole area is a scene of devastation.”

  “That’s right, black rock and ashes — except for the grape arbors. He also says,” Quintus paused, scanning the scroll, “that the blackness of the lands was probably created by ‘an earth-born fire.’ ”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I think he might be referring to mountains that spew fire, like Mount Aetna in Sicily. He conjectures that long after those fires are spent, the black dirt makes for excellent vine growing.”

  “Huh.” She looked out toward Vesuvius looming over them. The mountain was as green and lush as ever, with fall touches of gold and orange. Vineyards dotted the landscape up and down the mountain’s flanks. “I wonder if Vesuvius once spewed fire.”

  “Not likely. Look how lush the land is. It says clearly that in Phrygia the land is empty and black except for the vines.”

  “Does Strabo talk about any region that experienced constant tremors like ours?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. But I have to say I am getting tired of all the slaves and old women wailing about omens and portents. Pompeii has always been shaking. People have frightened themselves so much, many are packing up and returning to Rome.”

  “But you have to admit, it’s shaking more often than usual. And there have been strange happenings in the grazing fields and around the springs —”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, cutting her off. “My father also wants to return to Rome early in case another big earthquake hits.”

  “Return to Rome? I thought you lived in Herculaneum.”

  Quintus frowned as he lifted the terra-cotta cup of wine the kitchen woman had brought. “Our villa in Herculaneum is only our country home, dear,” he said. He passed her a cup. “Now, drink, drink.”

  She sipped the well-watered wine. He lived in Rome. So Cornelia’s plan wouldn’t work, even if she could bring herself to flirt with Quintus.

  “Why do you look so disappointed?”

  “Oh, no reason.”

  He leaned forward, grinning. “You’re going to miss me when I return to Rome, aren’t you? Well, that pleases me more than it should.”

  Gods. She made herself look down so he wouldn’t see that the only thing she was going to miss was the possibility of getting out of her betrothal with Vitulus.

  He reached over and lifted her chin. “How sweet you are. You’re blushing!” He leaned in for a kiss, but she turned her cheek to him.

  “I … I’m sorry,” she stammered, moving back. “It’s just that Father —”

  “Yes, yes. Your father would kill me if he caught me touching you or any of the household slaves. I got the lecture about that. I keep forgetting how provincial everyone in Pompeii is. In Rome, everyone is much freer with their affections.”

  “Even betrothed women?”

  “Especially betrothed women,” he said. “And especially young women like you, who are being bartered off to old men who don’t deserve them.”

  “I really should go,” she said, starting to rise. “My nurse will be looking for me.”

  He put a hand on hers to still her. “Your nurse? You are about to be married. You should not have to listen to old nursemaids.”

  She bit her lip as impulses warred within her. Cornelia’s voice inside her head admonished her to “Stay and flirt. It could mean getting out of marriage to Vitulus.” But all she wanted to do was run, preferably into the woods. And into Tag’s arms.

  Besides, she reminded herself, he lived in Rome, so there was no point, right? Before she could make up her mind about what to do, Quintus surprised her by leaning forward and gently pressing his mouth to hers. She froze for a moment and then pulled away, her cheeks flaming.

  “I … cannot …” She stood.

  He chuckled. “What a sweet little piece of untouched fruit you are.”

  Gods! “I’m sorry, I must go,” she managed to get out before she dashed from the atrium.

  Just before she turned the corner, she heard him exhale and mutter, “Yes. Very, very sweet.”

  Tag spied Quintus moving toward the armory for that afternoon’s training session. The patrician dragged his feet, which was unlike him. Tag wondered if his lack of energy was due to fear because they were finally having to kit out and fight. Or if he was ill …

  Don’t do it. Don’t ask. But the healer in him couldn’t ignore it. “Are you feeling unwell?” he asked as Quintus approached.

  The young man shook his head. “No, not unwell. Disappointed perhaps.”

  Tag said nothing. If he was not ill, it wasn’t any of his business.

  “Don’t you want to know what has disappointed me?” Quintus asked.

  No, not particularly.

  “Somebody I have fallen for seems to be avoiding me,” he said. “And I find that distressing.”

  Tag’s heartbeat pulsed in his ears. What was he saying? Had Quintus’s game of pursuing Lucia to aggravate his father resulted in him actually falling for her? Gods! The idea of the odious nobleman touching her made him want to shudder. He became aware that Quintus was watching him very carefully and made his face slave-blank again. “Well, um, since the young domina is betrothed,” he said, “it’s probably for the best that she is avoiding you.”

  “Interesting how you immediately think of lovely Lucia,” Quintus said. “She comes up often in your thoughts, doesn’t she?”

  Tag groaned inwardly. Why was he watching him so intently? “No, no … it is just that she is the only young lady in the household, so I assumed …”

  Quintus sighed. “Tell me. If you had fallen for someone who did not think very highly of you, would you give up, or would you keep trying to get this person to see you differently?”

  Gods. Why did he talk in riddles? He cleared his throat. “If it were impossible, I would give up.”

  The nobleman’s eyebrows rose. “Really? And what if there was an outside chance that this person could be persuaded to soften toward you?”

  “Well then, um. I guess I would keep on trying.” No. No, leave her alone!

  Quintus slapped him on the back, rubbing it for a moment in brotherly affection. “Perhaps you are right. I shall keep on trying. Thank you.”

  He moved away with more energy than he’d had before, and Tag shook his head. What had he just done? Had he just convinced the loathsome patrician to redouble his effort to seduce Lucia? He would have to warn her to be even more careful around him.

  Inside the armory, one of the freedmen gestured Tag over and pointed to a pile of equipment. “Pontius wants you as the secutor and Quintus as the retiarius —” he began.

  “Absolutely not!” Quintus cried, stopping abruptly. “I will not be the fisherman! He cannot make me fight as the most inferior and undignified of all the gladiators. That is an insult!”

  The freedman smirked with disdain. “In sparring, Dominus begins with the level he thinks you are most capable of handling.”

  “He’s making me fight with a net and a trident to humiliate me,” Quintus said, crossing his arms.

  “Exactly,” said the freedman.

  Tag almost felt sorry for Quintus. No one ever wanted to be the fisherman. The trident was unwieldy as a weapon, and the net cumbersome. If you missed your “catch,” you were essentially done for. At the same time, Tag felt a surge of pride in himself. Pontius thought him capable of sparring as a secutor, one of the more popular gladiator types.

  “Come, let’s get our weapons,” he urged. “We don’t have a choice anyway.”

  Quintus’s color was high. “Well, I am not a slave, so I always have a choice!” He stormed out — to find Pontius, Tag presumed.

  Not too long after, he came back, face still flushed, teeth set, but compliant. By Hercules, Tag would’ve given anything to hear how Pontius had handled the spoiled patrician.

  The slave in charge of outfitting Quintus handed him his rope net. Quintus looked surpri
sed at its heft.

  “It’s the lead weights,” Tag explained. “So the net stays down when you throw it.”

  Quintus scowled at him. “I know it has weights,” he said.

  “Let him put your arm into the shoulder guard before you try throwing it,” Tag said. “You need to have a feel for how the galerus affects your range of movement.”

  Quintus grunted and held his arm out for the weapons slave. Meanwhile, another slave continued tying Tag’s manica on his right arm, the heavy linen padding secured with what seemed like dozens of leather ties. While the slave moved on to Tag’s left leg, Quintus went out into the sand to practice throwing the net and wielding the trident. A few of the gladiators made rude comments at him, laughing and whistling. Tag followed him into the pit.

  A slave approached with the secutor’s heavy rectangular shield. Tag rubbed his palms with sand for a better hold on the leather-covered shield handle.

  The slave handed him his helmet. Tag took a deep breath and examined the headpiece. The heaviness of it surprised him. Only two round fish-eye holes were cut into the thick metal, and there were no nose or mouth openings. The top was curved so that no angle would catch the net. It was going to get scorching fast.

  “Quintus, you ready?” he called. He did not want to put on that heavy head-bowl until the last possible moment.

  His sparring partner raised his arm, and Tag adjusted the felt cap that would cushion the top of the helmet. Slowly, he lowered the thick metal over his face. Everything went black, the stink of old sweat and metal almost overwhelming. Even when he got the eyeholes adjusted, he could barely see. He needed to make this fight a fast one.

  One of the freedmen, acting as referee, signaled them to move into position, then held a wooden stick between them until he was satisfied that they were both ready. Tag leaned forward on his left leg, the greave biting into his ankle, preparing to attack. When the stick went up, Tag thrust forward, using his shield to push Quintus back.

  In the stifling helmet, Tag’s sight was so limited, he couldn’t see his opponent’s face, let alone read his expression. So he focused on Quintus’s hands — was he trying to throw the net? Where was the trident? The retiarius also came equipped with a dagger in his belt, he reminded himself.

  Quintus kept moving backward, which only made Tag move forward more aggressively. Quintus thrust with the trident, but Tag easily blocked it. He lunged forward and smacked the patrician backward again with the heavy rectangular shield. His right arm tightened as he thrust with his weighted wooden sword. Quintus barely stopped it with the trident, stumbling back.

  Tag’s labored breathing reverberated inside the helmet. It was like being underwater. As Quintus raised the net to throw it over him, Tag slammed him with his sword. He could feel the clang of Quintus’s shoulder guard all the way up his arm. Quintus dropped the net.

  He wished he could see the patrician’s face. It helped immensely in a fight to know whether your opponent was tiring or panicking. But like a half-blind bull, all Tag could do was keep attacking. He stumbled and almost fell over the net, but caught himself at the last moment. Quintus poked the trident at him, but he swatted it away with his sword.

  Watch for the other hand, he reminded himself. Once the retiarius threw the net, his left hand was free to pull the dagger. When he thrust his own gladius, the retiarius could attempt a sideswipe to the ribs on his unprotected side. But Quintus had not pulled out the dagger, instead taking the heavy trident with both hands.

  Stupid move. Tag lunged forward and attacked with an overhead swing. Quintus again barely blocked it. As Tag readjusted, he thought he could hear yelling and whistling from the other gladiators. He swung his sword again, but this time Quintus dropped the trident and ran.

  This was what made the retiarius such an object of derision, Tag thought. No Roman should ever run. Tag gave chase, but because of the helmet, he had to turn his whole body to see where Quintus was going. Was he trying to get behind him?

  The shield grew heavier and heavier. Even over his labored breathing, he could hear the other men laughing at Quintus. The referee should have stopped the fight by now. Indeed, Pontius should have stepped in the moment Quintus dropped the trident, then demonstrated what the patrician should have done instead.

  And then Tag understood. This was all a big show to put Quintus in his place. Again, he almost felt sorry for the rich fool. He caught sight of him at last across the pit. Quintus was trying to leave the space, but groups of gladiators kept pushing him back in.

  Tag wanted this over with too. He ran at Quintus and feinted a lunge left, thrusting with his shield. Quintus jerked backward, lost his balance, and went down hard on his back. Tag instantly swung the wooden sword at his neck, stopping at the last moment. If it had been a real sword, he would have drawn blood. Through the thick metal, he could hear the other gladiators calling — Kill! Kill! Kill! — as if they were really in an arena.

  Finally, he felt the referee’s stick slap him on the shoulder to end the fight. Tag immediately dropped his shield and gladius, using both hands to remove the heavy helmet. A wall of noise met him as the other fighters jeered at Quintus and cheered him.

  “Patrician pansy!” “The healer boy can fight!” “Wooden or not, I woulda sunk that gladius into his neck!”

  Tag sucked in big gulps of air as someone took the helmet from him. He put one hand up in the signal of victory. He extended the same arm down to help Quintus up, but the patrician only glared at him.

  “No hard feelings. It’s all part of the training,” Tag said, keeping his arm out.

  Quintus took it but, in the same instant, swung one of his legs against Tag’s ankles. He fell hard on his back in the sand, the wind leaving his lungs with a grunt. Vaguely, he was aware of the other gladiators making sounds of disgust and moving toward them.

  “You need to keep in mind, boy,” Quintus said, suddenly straddling him and pinning his shoulders. “I get what I want. You remember that, Tages. In the end, I always get what I want.”

  In a blink, Quintus was pulled off of his chest by several gladiators outraged at his conduct. Pontius was instantly in the thick of the tussle, using his whip handle and roar to get the other trainees to release Quintus. When he finally succeeded, he shook the patrician and yelled, “Get out of my pit. You dishonor this ludus. And don’t come back today, do you hear me? I am tired of saving your idiotic asinus!”

  He gave Quintus a little shove and Quintus staggered off, giving Tag one last inscrutable look over his shoulder.

  Oh, stop being such a baby,” Cornelia said when Lucia flinched.

  “She is sewing my hair with a needle! It hurts when the needle scrapes my scalp.”

  Cornelia tutted while a slave oiled and massaged her swollen feet. “She is not ‘sewing’ your hair. And it’s not a needle — the tip is rounded! How else can she weave that lovely ribbon through all that hair?”

  “All that hair” was right. Somehow, Cornelia’s ornatrix had created the illusion that Lucia had three times the volume of her usual hair. It had been wound and twisted and curled and now sewed with ribbons into tiers of what was supposed to be the latest elegant look out of Rome.

  Lucia sighed and looked around Cornelia’s dressing space, which seemed to her more like a torture chamber than a lady’s room. A fire crackled in a wide-bowled stand where Cornelia’s hairdresser heated the irons that had curled her hair. The room reeked of hot metal, singed hair, and sweet almond oil. Long and thin tweezers, files, buffers, and brushes for kohl and rouges littered the ivory-topped table.

  “I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold my head up if she weaves anything else into it,” she grumbled.

  “Oh, stop it,” Cornelia said. “You look lovely.”

  “Why isn’t your hair as fancy?”

  “You’re the focus today,” Cornelia said without meeting her gaze.

  Today was the day of the great dinner with Pliny. Lucia had come over within the first hora of the morning
, and Cornelia immediately set her hair and makeup sorceresses to work on her. She could tell Cornelia’s ornatrix was annoyed by Lucia’s impatience and ingratitude because she tugged hard at her scalp every time she moved her head slightly out of position.

  “Can I at least have a scroll to read?” she asked Cornelia as the hairdresser pushed her head forward. “I’m bored.”

  “No. Your head will be at the wrong angle, and besides, I don’t want any of Antyllus’s scrolls to get singed by accident.”

  “Oh, but singeing me is not a worry.”

  “Why are you being so difficult?” Cornelia asked.

  “Nerves,” Lucia said. “Do you realize I will be married within two weeks? TWO weeks! And very soon I will be meeting the great Pliny himself!” She fanned her face. “I just hope I can string a coherent sentence together and not make a fool of myself.”

  Her friend did not meet her eyes. “You’ll be fine.” Cornelia stood, a three-part process that involved thrusting her belly out, leveraging her weight on the counter with one hand, and then pushing off with a grunt. “I’m off to the latrina — again — and will be preparing in my anteroom after that. Come see me in there when Clio has finished dressing you,” she instructed Lucia, then waddled out of the room.

  Lucia wasn’t used to having someone fuss over her as she dressed, but she had to admit, Cornelia had very fine tastes. The lavender dress she had picked out from her pre-pregnancy collection felt like silk — and who knows, maybe it was. The jewelry was sumptuous too — a golden snakelet on her wrist and pearls dangling from her ears. She was fingering the earrings as she walked into Cornelia’s room.

  Cornelia looked up at her and smiled. “Oh, Lucia, you look beautiful.”

  “Thank you, but I feel like an overdecorated honey cake. I still don’t understand why I had to dress up like this. I think Pliny will take me more seriously if I’m dressed soberly.”

  “About Pliny …” Cornelia said, nervously adjusting the draping of her elegant stola.

  Lucia looked at her friend. “Oh, please don’t tell me he has canceled!”