He turned to her. “We both know he is failing.” He did not answer the last question.
Lucia caught the look of dread on Tag’s face.
“Well, I’m afraid I will have to insist,” Quintus said. “I believe the arrangement we have made will adequately cover costs for an interim healer until you are able to purchase another slave.”
“I need a medicus who is used to working on gladiators and dealing with their injuries,” Titurius said. “They are not easy to find.”
Quintus shrugged. “My father knows a lot of former military medics. We’ll find you a medicus from the legions who has done his time and wants out.”
Her father still looked unconvinced. “Marry her today before sundown,” he said at last, “to avoid the scandal. And it’s a deal.”
“Fine,” Quintus said, looking at Lucia, then at Tag.
Pontius took the patrician by his uninjured arm and said, “Let’s get the elder healer to look at that bite.”
Quintus nodded. “I will leave for Herculaneum as soon as my arm is treated. Bring them both to me later today and we will have the ceremony before sundown. Agreed?”
Titurius made a noise of assent.
“Meanwhile, you are not to hurt either of them. No whipping the slave. No bruises on your daughter.”
Titurius would have none of it. “You dare tell me how to manage my own slaves? My own daughter?”
Quintus straightened into his usual posture of nobility. “Our deal is dependent on you pretending to be civilized for this one day, which I know must be hard for a butcher such as you. However, I insist that you somehow manage it.”
Titurius’s face reddened in rage, but he said nothing.
Quintus looked at Lucia and then Tag one last time before allowing Pontius to lead him back into the compound. Tag gave him a small nod of acknowledgment, as close to a “thank you,” Lucia imagined, as he could muster for the order that kept him from being whipped. But the set of his jaw told her he was still fuming over what the patrician had planned.
When Quintus was out of hearing, Titurius turned to one of his freedmen. “You — lock him up with the imprisoned gladiators.”
The man grabbed Tag by an upper arm.
“But he has done nothing wrong,” Lucia pleaded. “And you heard Quintus —”
Her father raised his arm as if to hit her again and then lowered it. His face was almost purple with rage. “You have caused me enough trouble. Start packing your things. I will not lose this opportunity. And I will send this slave on,” he added, pointing at Tag’s retreating back, “only when I see the ceremony concluded and not one moment before.”
He stomped back toward the house. “Go back to work, you lazy idiots!” he yelled at everyone who had gathered to watch.
* * *
As the morning wore on, Lucia paced in her small cubiculum. They could not follow through with Quintus’s plan. It would crush Tag’s spirit to be taken away from medicine and gladiator training just to satisfy another owner’s passing whims. And even if Quintus fancied himself in love, it wouldn’t change the fact that Tag and Lucia were both being bartered away for a price, to be used against their will. She couldn’t — wouldn’t — allow that to happen.
She heard Quintus announce to her father that he would have everything prepared for the ceremony in Herculaneum by the ninth hour. She and Tag would have to sneak away long before that. But how?
Think. Think. She would tell her father she was going to Cornelia’s for a bath. Yes, he’d allow that. And … and she’d tell him she needed Damocles to attend her, because Cornelia wanted to consult with him about her upcoming birth. And Damocles would bring his medical things because he might need them.
They would proceed toward Cornelia’s, and then she’d slip out a different city gate with the old man. He probably wouldn’t even notice at first. Then Tag could get away through the Vesuvian gate, after which they would find each other at the abandoned shrine of Mephistis. It would be hard going with Damocles, but they could then get him to Nuceria, where they could hire a carriage to Thurii. Nobody would think to look for them there.
Best of all, if her father thought she was bathing and preparing with Cornelia, it would be hours before their disappearance would be discovered. She could send a note to Cornelia asking her to pretend that they were there and further delay her father’s summons to leave. Her friend would do that for her.
Her heart began to beat faster. They really could do it. If the gods were willing, and she got Tag released from the gladiator cells, they could make it out and protect Tag’s father too.
Once she was certain Metrodona was nowhere in sight, she drew the drape across the opening to her cubiculum and unlocked the chest where she’d hidden her hoard. She piled all the treasures into an old shawl, including the golden coins from her mother’s things.
A ring clattered on the floor and she picked it up. It was a man’s ring — her dead brother’s citizenship ring, she realized. She remembered when her brother had first received it, after his manhood ceremony, where he exchanged the bulla necklace protecting his child self for the traditional ring of an adult Roman citizen. Mater must have gotten the ring back when the officers came to tell her about his death. It gave Lucia a pang to think of her mother holding her firstborn’s ring to her heart in grief. She would have had nothing to hold on to for her lost, exposed babies.
She put the ring in the center of the pile and then reached under her mattress for the votive of Turan that Tag had given her. The small piece of clay fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, and she closed her fingers around it.
Keep us safe from harm, she begged the Etruscan goddess of love. Protect us from our enemies and we will honor you for the rest of our lives.
When she heard voices, she hastily put the votive with the other treasures and wrapped it all up to look like a small stash of laundry. Then she hid it under the bed. They were going to do this. And they were going to have to do it right away. It was just a matter of figuring out how to get Tag unshackled.
She wandered out to the atrium, where slaves had hung the laundry to dry. At the ends of the lines flapped the slaves’ own tattered tunics and unraveling shawls. Carefully, she slid off a few pieces that looked about the right size and rolled them up. She dashed back into her cubiculum and changed. Even though everyone in the compound knew her, she gambled that she would appear invisible to the guards as long as she covered her hair and slouched like a tired slave.
Once dressed, she looked around her room. Metrodona had left some bread and fruit for her earlier. Perfect. She would pretend to bring Tag food from the kitchens, and they could make their getaway plans then. She put a shawl over her head, hugging the bread to her chest, and peeked out of her cubiculum. All clear.
With her heart thudding in her ears, she walked toward the barracks.
The cell in the barracks reeked of sweat, urine, and fear. Tag sat with his head leaning back against the wall, his wrists and ankles shackled to the stone. He closed his eyes. He could not fathom how it had come to this. It was as if the gods had conspired to torture him in the worst possible way — to be sold to the man who was going to marry Lucia? What had he done to anger them so?
He thought of what this meant for his father. Gods, he would be left alone in the Titurius household, the very destiny Tag had been trying to avoid for him. The master clearly knew that he was losing his faculties — “failing,” he had said. What would Titurius do to him?
Metal clanged in the cell next to him and a man muttered in Iberian. Hamilcar? What had the hotheaded gladiator done now? On the other side, a voice with a lilting accent asked, “Why is the healer in chains?”
“Long story,” Tag mumbled.
“We have nothing but time here.”
“Don’t want to talk about it,” Tag said. “Tell me about you.”
“My name is Taharka from Nubia.”
“Rome has no outposts in your land. So how did you end up here?” Tag
asked.
The man laughed, a heavy yet melodic sound. “They have no outposts in my land because Romans know better than to engage our warriors, for we would conquer the conquerors.”
“Yet you have been conquered.”
“Only by greed,” said the Nubian. “I was trading gold with the Roman governor of Numidia. He claims I tried to cheat him, which I did not. So he had me arrested and sold into slavery — the profits of which he took, along with my entire cache of gold. The bastard.”
“A greedy Roman magistrate sold my family into slavery generations ago,” Tag said. “I am sorry.”
“I have always been strong, but now I will be stronger,” Taharka said. “I will fight in the arena and win my freedom, and then go back to Numidia and take revenge on that crooked Roman. Then, and only then, will I return to my beloved Nubia.”
Tag kept silent. Did every gladiator believe that he would survive the ring and win his freedom? He could hear the desperation of the dream — and how unlikely it was. A deeper despair sank into his bones. He never would have won his freedom as a gladiator. Nothing would have enabled him to live freely. And even if he could, he would never be able to be with Lucia anyway. So what was the point?
The iron doors clanked and rattled. Someone was coming.
“Slave girl to see the healer,” announced one of the guards in broken Latin. He escorted a hunched girl covered by a shawl into his cell, winking at Tag as he left.
“Tag —” came a familiar whisper.
His head shot forward, his eyes wide.
“It’s me,” Lucia whispered. “I … I brought some bread for you.”
He stared at her, openmouthed. “What are you doing here? You can’t —”
“I am preparing for us to run away,” she whispered.
He laughed and choked back a sob all at the same time. Gods, he loved her. But how could she still think they could do this?
“Don’t laugh,” she scolded in an undertone. “We are both going to run away. As soon as I —”
“Luc —”
“Don’t use my name! Listen to me. As soon as I can get you unshackled, we will go.” She explained how she would take Damocles with her and how they would link up at the abandoned shrine.
As insane as her plan sounded, Tag still felt hope beginning to stir in his chest. She sounded so convinced that they could escape, that they could actually make their dream of creating a new life together a reality. Was it truly possible? Could he protect his father and be free?
Voices and feet came thundering down the hall. Lucia covered her head.
Tag’s cell door swung open, and Titurius’s form filled the doorway. “You little tramp!” he roared. “You’ve been fooling all of us, haven’t you?” He swiped at Lucia’s shawl, exposing her face. “You think I would be so stupid as to not have you watched? You think you could outwit me?”
He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her up, and she uttered a small cry of pain. Tag scrabbled against the stone wall to stand, his chains clanging as he raised his fists.
“And what are you going to do, medicus? What a waste! Even after I sent you to Rome to train! Well, I don’t care what Quintus says, I’m going to beat you blind and —”
Titurius stopped as the earth began to tremble. They heard sharp cries from outside as the intensity of the shaking grew. Instinctively, everyone crouched and covered their heads as the ground rolled and shuddered under them. The air was filled with the sounds of crashing columns and buckling walls.
Earthquake, Tag thought. This was no tremor; this was the real thing. The earth bucked under their feet and the movement seemed to go on and on.
The ground finally stopped undulating, though the creaking of settling walls and joists continued. Clouds of plaster dust hung in the air. The sounds of people running and women crying drifted into the room. Titurius looked dazedly around, and Tag saw with relief that although cracks had appeared in the cell walls, the building itself seemed intact. The roof held.
Lucia rushed to Tag’s side, and Titurius caught the movement, which seemed to bring him back to himself.
“You are the curse-bearer,” he said, pointing at Tag with wide, almost crazed eyes. “This is all your fault. You made this happen.” He grabbed Lucia by the upper arm and dragged her outside. “The curse will be broken when you marry Quintus,” Tag heard the master say, and he couldn’t tell whether Titurius was trying to convince himself or Lucia. “The priest assured me of this! I am taking you to Quintus’s house now. You must marry right away to keep more evil from befalling us.”
“No!” Lucia cried, trying to wriggle out of his grip, looking back at Tag through the open doorway.
Titurius roared for his steward. “Prepare the horses for me,” he commanded. “We leave for Herculaneum now.”
“But, sir,” the steward said, running to meet Titurius just outside the doorway, “the damage to the compound … We don’t even know how bad it is yet. You can’t leave now! You are needed here!”
“Do as I command!” Lucius roared.
“Dominus —”
“The gods have spoken,” he said. “I must get her married now to save us all. I’ll be back before sundown. Pontius, you’re in charge of the barracks and the gladiators. Keep an eye on them. I don’t want anyone running away in this chaos.”
Pointing to Tag, he added, “And as soon as things settle, I want that boy crucified for defiling my daughter. Do you hear me? I want to see him hanging by the beams when I get back.”
“No, Father! You cannot. Quintus said —”
“He doesn’t have to know until after you’re married. Everything will be fine as soon as that takes place. And finally I will have my revenge on the curse-bearer.”
Tag watched Lucia disappear into the light as her father dragged her after him. For one brief moment, he had dared to hope again that maybe — just maybe — they really could steal away. But now, it was all over. How many times would he lose her?
Then he heard people crying out in pain, and the healer in him made him sit up straight. People were injured. Maybe even trapped under rubble. The stone cells and barracks had withstood quakes before, but what about the old house? And Damocles? Was he all right?
“Pontius,” he bellowed. “Let me out! Let me check on my father!” Then he added, “Some of the men may need medical attention!”
He hoped that would work. It did. Pontius rushed into the cell, ashen-faced. “It’s bad,” he said, hands shaking as he unlocked the chains at Tag’s wrists and ankles. “The master must be desperate for Quintus’s money to leave now.” He grabbed Tag’s arm. “Don’t do anything stupid — we need you as medicus.”
“Let them out too,” Tag said, nodding to other men shackled in the adjoining cells.
“Can’t risk it. They’re not hurt, so they stay.”
“But the walls could fall on them!”
“This building has withstood worse. I’m going to round up the other gladiators to see who is injured. You must attend to them first, do you understand? I can’t find your father, so it will be my only excuse for sparing you from the beams. Make an effort.”
As soon as he was unshackled, Tag shot out of the cell.
“Where are you going?” Pontius shouted.
“For medical supplies,” he called back. But he was lying.
Even as the earth continued to spasm with aftershocks, Lucia’s father refused to let her out of his sight. He sent a girl to get a change of clothes and pack up her things for the trip to Herculaneum, then dragged her out into the garden, waiting for the horses to be calm enough to ride.
Then the earth rocked yet again and terra-cotta roof tiles crashed down around her. People screamed and ran. Others called out names, desperately trying to find one another. Lucia worried about Metrodona. And Cornelia! Gods, she hoped she was unhurt.
“Father, Herculaneum may have been hit too,” she said. “I don’t think we should go right now. We should attend to the house here.”
>
But he ignored her, his jaw set.
She tried another tactic. “Father, you cannot crucify Tages. It will only enrage Quintus, and you need his —” She was about to say money, but quickly changed it to “patronage.”
“He can get a medicus replacement easily enough,” Titurius said. “He has no right to tell me how to treat my own slaves.” He turned to her and lowered his voice. “And I don’t want him to find out how you demeaned yourself with a slave as well!”
“I did not demean … Nothing happened —”
He made a disgusted noise in his throat and marched away from her to talk to his steward. She turned to run to her room and get her hoard, but one of her father’s freedmen emerged from the shadows to grab her arm.
“Not so fast, miss. I am to watch you until you are on the road to Herculaneum,” he said. “We’re going to the stables now.”
She wanted to scream in desperation. She had to save Tag, but how? How?
In the chaos, two horses were brought to them outside the stable. One horse pulled a small cart, while the other was saddled up.
“Dominus, the horses are still agitated,” the stable master cried. “I do not recommend taking them out now. I do not know that they can be controlled. Nor do we know what the roads are like.”
“I don’t care,” Titurius said through gritted teeth. “Besides, we’ll be safer out on the road than inside the compound. We can walk the horses around any blockages. Now let’s go.”
The stable boy finally put blinders on the horses, which helped a little, but not much. As if in a dream, Lucia climbed into the rickety cart, and they rolled out of the compound gates.
When she thought about Tag, despair swallowed her like a giant wave. At least she knew he hadn’t been crushed in the big quake. But what if the walls collapsed as the earth continued its small shudders? How was she going to get back to him? She closed her eyes at the thought of the pain and agony he would endure if Pontius did crucify him as ordered. Death did not come right away with crucifixion; after a couple of days of misery, the victims usually died of asphyxiation when they lost the strength to lift their heads.
Curses and Smoke Page 19
