Curses and Smoke

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  She shook her head.

  Cornelia huffed. “You promised me you would stop seeing him.” She gave Lucia a sly look. “But then again, if I had to marry a man like Vitulus, I’d probably try to find a young, handsome, amazing kisser for myself too.”

  Lucia grinned at her friend and squeezed her hand.

  “Only, I’d tell my best friend who it was,” Cornelia added with an arched eyebrow. “Unlike some people I know.”

  Tag looked up from crushing thyme root as Castor ran back into the medical room. “Did you give the salve to Lady Lucia?”

  “No. But I saw Metrodona, so I gave it to her.”

  Tag groaned and dropped the pestle. “You’re not supposed to give the medicine to Metrodona. You’re only supposed to give it to Lucia.”

  Castor screwed up his face at him. “I don’t know why you are mad. It’s Metrodona who needs the medicine, not Lady Lucia!”

  Tag rubbed his forehead. Was that why Lucia hadn’t come to the woods when he’d sent the salve the previous day? The household was in a flurry of preparation for her wedding, and they were supposed to run the next day. Not seeing her had fed the flames of his fear — what if she changed her mind? What if she refused to go through with it? His muscles clenched at the idea of losing her and the future they’d imagined for themselves.

  “Anyway, Metrodona told me to take it back,” Castor continued. “She says she doesn’t want to see any more salve from me.” He pulled the small clay container from his tunic belt and placed it on the worktable.

  “Castor,” Tag said through gritted teeth, “pick that salve back up, and this time deliver it directly to Lucia.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “She is not at the house.”

  “Did her nurse say where she was?”

  “Metrodona said she and Dominus and the other man went somewhere.”

  “What other man?”

  “The one you fight with.”

  Quintus. She was on an outing with her father and Quintus? He hadn’t even realized the patrician had returned from Herculaneum. Tag picked up the pestle again, knocked it against the stone side to clear it, and resumed pressing and crushing the stubborn plant with renewed force. Lucia and her father were probably just running an errand together, and Quintus joined them.

  The best thing to do was to stay focused on making sure he had everything he needed to practice as a healer in Thurii. He began mentally riffling through the small bag of medical supplies he’d packed — bandages, herbs for purging and cleansing, leeches, honey…. The pack was bulging as it was — he might have to leave the honey. He would need room too for the new set of surgical tools Quintus had given him. His father believed that the kit belonged to the school…. Tag pictured Damocles’s reaction upon learning that he had run away — and taken the “master’s” surgical kit with him.

  A deep, hot bolt of shame contracted his gut. How was it that he hadn’t even thought about what would happen to his father when he ran away? He swallowed a groan, imagining what Titurius would do to his apa when he discovered that Tag had disappeared with his daughter. Damocles would not survive Titurius’s rage. He could not subject his father to that. He couldn’t!

  The pestle clattered onto the table and Tag put his head in his hands. Maybe they could take his apa with them … but he knew his father would never agree to go. And they couldn’t very well drag him away. They’d get caught immediately.

  Yet not running away and never seeing Lucia again … no. He couldn’t do that either. Tag’s chest tightened as if there was a great vise squeezing his lungs. Why had the gods trapped him in this way?

  He stood so abruptly, his stool slid with a bang against a wooden chest of supplies. Castor jumped.

  “Go find my father and help him with whatever he is doing, Castor,” Tag ordered.

  “No, I am tired of being sent awa —”

  “Go. NOW. Do you hear me, boy?” he roared.

  Castor stared up at him, his face reddening, but he obeyed.

  Tag needed to spar with someone. And he needed to do it now.

  * * *

  “Let’s go!” Pontius shouted outside the pit. “Next pair, up now!”

  Sigdag sauntered onto the sand as a heavily armored hoplomachus, or Samnite fighter, wearing a plumed helmet. As the school’s champion, he exuded a confidence that bordered on arrogance. One of the newer fighters tentatively approached as murmillo.

  “Meanwhile, Tag, you fight as thraex,” Pontius said. “Nicodemus, challenge him as hoplomachus — get prepared.”

  Tag frowned. He’d only been paired with Quintus, which, he realized now, meant he hadn’t gotten any practice adapting to others’ fighting styles. But he needed this.

  Once outfitted with metal greaves, helmet, and a small rectangular shield, Tag walked out to the edges of the pit to watch Sigdag fight. The house champion forced his opponent to his knees three times before the overseer called the fight.

  “Wake up, Tag!” Pontius yelled. “You two are next.”

  Tag slipped on his helmet, thankful that the thraex one had only a small grille covering his mouth, leaving his vision clear. Nicodemus, however, had to contend with the fish-eye holes and closed-off mouth of the hoplomachus helm.

  Nicodemus was about the same size as Quintus, Tag realized. And when his face disappeared under the metal, it was as if he was squaring off against the annoying patrician. Quintus, whose wealth and status allowed him to only “play” at being a gladiator. Quintus, who could destroy Lucia in the morning and then laugh about it over wine that evening. Quintus, who stood for every arrogant, insufferable Roman who’d stolen his family’s wealth and honor. Tag’s breath quickened as a surge of hatred flooded his limbs.

  As Pontius approached with the referee stick, Tag leaned into his left front leg and held the angled Thracian sword up in the ready position, his fingers tightening on the grip of his shield. A desire to kill — no, annihilate — pounded in his blood, sharpening his vision and hearing. It took an age for the referee to lift the stick, but when he did, Tag lunged with a roar.

  He forced his opponent onto his back foot, even as the man thrust forward with his sword. Tag easily punched the weapon away with his shield. With all his might, he lunged at the man, aiming a sidearm slash to exposed flesh. Nicodemus blocked that attack and several more in quick succession.

  Tag’s opponent backed away and the two men circled each other. Tag could hear the man’s labored breathing and smiled with malice, remembering the misery of the closed-off helmet. He pictured Quintus’s weaselly face suffering.

  Tag suddenly feinted left and his opponent thrust his shield out, exposing his neck. Tag aimed for the opening. Nicodemus barely got his shield up in time to stop the blow, which would have killed him if they’d been fighting with real swords. Still, the force of Tag’s attack sent him sprawling. Tag threw one knee on his chest and heard a distinct crack. The man roared in pain, but Tag pressed the wooden sword hard over his throat. Ignoring the touch of Pontius’s cane on his shoulder, he growled, “Give me an excuse, Quintus. I know what bones to break in your neck so you’ll never walk again….”

  “I’m not Quintus!” Nicodemus grunted. “Damned lunatic!”

  At the same time, Pontius hit Tag again and again with the cane. “Enough!” he roared. “When the cane touches ye, ye back off, got it?”

  Tag blinked, and it was as if he had suddenly emerged from the bottom of the sea. He became aware of Nicodemus’s cursing, the hoots of the watching fighters, and the trainer’s reddened face yelling at him. He jumped back.

  “I think my wrist is broken,” Nicodemus complained, holding it up, and indeed, it was bent at an awkward angle. “I fell on it and he jumped on me,” he hissed as someone removed his helmet.

  Tag took off his own helmet. “I … I am sorry —”

  “Never apologize,” barked Pontius.

  The healer in Tag took over. “Get me a splint from the medical room,” he called to one of the slaves. “An
d some strong bandages.”

  “No,” Nicodemus cried. “I don’t want you helping me. You’ll probably break the other wrist.”

  “Don’t be a baby,” Pontius said. “Tag, why don’t you escort him —”

  “Call the older healer to attend to him,” someone interrupted them from behind. “I want to fight this boy.”

  Both Pontius and Tag turned to look up into the face of the straggly-haired German, Sigdag. “You want to fight me?” Tag asked.

  Pontius looked from the German to Tag and back again, then grinned. “Fine. But don’t kill him,” he said to the primus palus. “We need him as a healer.” He turned to one of the attendant slaves. “Take Nicodemus to Damocles,” he commanded.

  “Why do you want to fight me?” Tag asked Sigdag.

  He shrugged. “Skill can be taught. The body can be trained. But pure rage and hatred — that is either in a man or it’s not. It’s not something I see often in this ludus. But I see it in you.”

  Tag didn’t know if he should be insulted or proud. Worse, he worried that all of his rage had been spent on Nicodemus. He felt like a deflated wineskin.

  As if he could read his mind, Sigdag showed brown teeth in an ugly smile. “Just because you think it has leaked away doesn’t mean you can’t call it back.” He moved in close to Tag. “That is what a champion does — learns how to focus his hatred on the face of his opponent.”

  Tag nodded. The German signaled to a slave to bring his shield. He would fight — as he had previously — as the heavily armed hoplomachus, which was convenient since Tag was outfitted as a thraex.

  Tag looked Sigdag up and down. The German had to have at least three inches and fifty pounds on him. Tag’s only saving grace was going to be his lightness and speed. “So who do you hate when you are fighting?” Tag asked.

  “You should be focusing on who you hate right now, boy, but I will tell you,” Sigdag said. He closed his eyes for a second. “I hate the Roman who didn’t kill me at the battle outside my village. I hate that he robbed me of the honor of a warrior’s death. I hate the Roman doctor who stitched me up and kept me alive. The slave trader who put me in chains, and Lucius Titurius for working me like an ox in the field. But you know who I hate the most?” he growled. “I hate my gods, for being weaker than the Roman gods. For dishonoring my village and my people and my family by letting us lose to these Roman wolves. For doing nothing to stop the Romans from raping and killing my wife and murdering my infant son. And the Romans themselves for setting my village on fire and making me watch. Should I keep going, boy? Because I’ve got plenty more. But I think you get the idea. When that cane is lifted between us, I will no longer see you, but every Roman and weakling god who has ever failed me.”

  But I am not Roman, Tag wanted to say. I am Etruscan, of an ancient line of priests and healers. He knew it would make no difference to the big man. In a flash, he remembered how his mother often complained that gladiatorial combat started with the Etruscans as a holy rite, and the Romans defiled it by turning it into entertainment.

  “Now,” Sigdag said. “I will give you a minute to call up your own hate.”

  Tag swallowed. Could he find his fury over Quintus again? It didn’t take much to try. All he had to do was imagine him using Lucia and laughing about it later. Imagine himself never seeing Lucia again. Imagine having to spend the rest of his life being owned by a man like Titurius and sneered at by a spoiled worm like Quintus.

  Even so, terror outweighed anger. Sigdag was huge and strong. Why had he singled Tag out? He tried to slow down his breath by blowing through his cheeks. Fear, he told himself, could be just as motivating as anger, as long as he didn’t let it overwhelm him.

  The German covered his face in his hoplomachus helmet, and Tag bent his knees in preparation. Perhaps he could outlast him or aggravate him into making a mistake. That was all he had, so it would have to do.

  The cane between them went up, and they circled each other. The German feinted to one side and Tag threw up his shield. Sigdag swung overhead, clanging him on his helmet at the same time that he put his leg behind Tag’s heel. The next thing Tag knew, he was staring up at the sky. Sand irritated his ears, which meant his helmet had flown off.

  “Again. Up,” commanded Sigdag.

  Tag shook himself off, replaced his helmet, and readied for another round. This time when the cane lifted, he threw himself into an attack, figuring Sigdag was used to rattled assailants always on the defensive. The big man blocked his strike, and Tag danced out of the way of his sword thrust. Tag went at him again and again, always barely escaping the sword. Then he heard a strange, hollow sound coming from the German’s helmet. It took him a moment to realize it was laughter.

  Sigdag was laughing at him? A blinding rage surged up his center and he came in close again, batting away the man’s weapon with his shield and reaching underneath his arm with his sword.

  He felt it — the give of wood on flesh. Yes! He’d gotten Sigdag in the side. Not a hard blow, but enough to surprise him. Tag threw his weight into a shield strike —

  But the next thing he knew, he was staring at the sky again. How had a man as big as Sigdag moved so quickly?

  “Again,” the German said.

  Three more times they sparred, and three more times Tag found himself flat on the sand. “Ready to give up, little healer boy?” Sigdag taunted.

  “Never.”

  “Good.”

  On the sixth round, Tag aimed for the midsection after feinting high, then slammed his curved sword into the German’s wrist. The man grunted and released his spear. Then Tag attacked hard, slicing up backhanded from the wrist for the neck — but Sigdag blocked him with such force, he went flying. Yet he didn’t fall. He scrabbled for balance, found it, and crouched low, noticing that Sigdag had his spear again.

  He must have irritated the German, because the champion came at him with a force he’d clearly been holding back. Block. Block. Block. That was all he could do. Sigdag’s overhead attack was so forceful, Tag knew his shield wouldn’t take the weight, so he bent with it, balling himself into the sand and rolling over his shoulder to get away. The German hadn’t expected the loss of resistance and staggered forward. In the same moment, Tag sprang up and slammed his wooden sword into the back of the German’s knees. At least, he intended it to be a slam — it was more of a chip. But it was enough to send Sigdag down into the dirt.

  Now behind him, Tag drew back, readying for a winning blow. But somehow, the German whipped around and used his shield to slam him in the stomach, throwing Tag into the air over him. This time he did not see sky but got a mouthful of sand instead. His forehead clanged against the metal of his helmet, and he felt blood trickle into his left eye. The German pressed his dagger into the back of his neck, and Tag put his hand up in defeat.

  Gradually, awareness of sound came back to him, and he heard the men chanting, “Mercy, mercy, mercy,” and laughing.

  Sigdag removed the dagger and grunted at him. Tag turned over. He spit out sand and sat up. The German held out his hand and Tag took it. Sigdag lifted him up with little effort and leaned toward his ear. “Finally, you came in low, boy.”

  Tag looked up at him, confused.

  “Many make this mistake. They come at me high because I am big. But that means they are not paying attention to what I am doing. If your opponent goes high — which I tend to do — you must aim low. Watch your enemy more carefully.”

  “I … I wasn’t even aware of whether you were going high or low. I was too scared,” Tag admitted.

  The German laughed and pointed to his head. “That is part of the game too. But you must pay attention — where is your opponent lunging? Once you understand his preference, you can attack the weak spot.”

  As Pontius approached, Sigdag called, “I tell you I see something in him.”

  “Maybe so,” Pontius said. “But obviously, he needs a lot more training. And bulk.”

  Tag should have been insulted, but h
e wasn’t. It had been ugly and possibly embarrassing, but he had gotten a couple of jabs in. That was more than he thought he could have managed.

  Even so, the relief and excitement of holding his own with the German didn’t last long. With one long release of breath, the bitter reality of his situation flooded back in. He was going to lose Lucia because he couldn’t bring himself to condemn his father to a violent death. And even if he got the training he needed, even if he managed to find a way to convince the master to let him fight in the arena, even if he survived long enough to be freed, he would still never see Lucia again.

  “You have the speed, boy,” Sigdag said, using his massive bear paw to give Tag a small shove. “You could turn into something.”

  To no end, he thought, and walked away.

  The air was thick with the musk of frightened animals as they entered the colonnaded courtyard of the Temple of Venus Pompeia. Portable wooden pens overflowed with bleating lambs, snuffling pigs, and pecking chickens. Vendors shouted promises that their animals were “perfect, unblemished, and fit for the gods.” Lucia had never seen so many creatures at the temple on a non-festival day. She thought the strange rumblings of the earth must be driving those who remained in Pompeii to increase their attempts to appease the gods.

  As they neared the temple itself, Lucia tried to remember a time when it wasn’t under some sort of construction or renovation. Empty scaffolding, broken ladders, and unhung friezes leaned against the temple’s outer walls. Perhaps the goddess was angry at the slow pace of her temple’s reconstruction.

  On the walk through town, Lucia’s father had not answered her questions about the reasons for this trip to the temple. He only smiled at her and exchanged a look with Quintus. Quintus had insisted a slave hold an umbraculum over her to protect her from the sun. She couldn’t imagine why it mattered to him, but she went along without complaint. Once inside the courtyard, her father joined the long line of supplicants waiting to purchase sacrificial animals.

  “Come,” Quintus said to her. “Let us walk among the goddess’s gardens while we wait for your father.”