My Wicked Gladiators
Page 28
He reappeared after what seemed a long time, emerging from the hall where the men took their meals. He did not look over to the gate, which I stood in front of.
Perhaps he had convinced himself already that I was dead.
My lips quirked in amusement when I saw that Lucius had hung his childhood bulla around his neck. Though they put it away at the end of childhood, as did women, men were permitted to bring it out again for official occasions in which they could benefit from the protection against evil.
If he wanted to believe that I had been so possessed, then I hoped it soothed him.
Striding across the sand, his chest puffed out more than I thought necessary, he stopped directly beneath the balcony, waiting.
Moments later, Marcus and Caius appeared in the yard, from the opposite side that my husband had entered from. They had been in Marcus’ quarters, I saw, and had changed clothing.
No longer wearing the subligaculum that they had all but lived in for so long, each donned a simple but clean cloth tunic. The tunic, I knew, meant more than it appeared on the surface.
Roman sumptuary laws decreed that a person’s clothing tell of their status. The subligaculum had announced to the world that they were gladiators. The short tunic was the uniform of the freeman.
Both men were stiff and stoic as they walked across the yard in which they had spent so many hours, though I noticed Caius twisting his long fingers in the fabric of his tunic. They stopped directly in front of Lucius, and each offered him a small sack.
Lucius took the small, worn pouches of coins from the two men. The pouches held coin, their winnings from the arena—the payment for their freedom. I saw his fingers twitch as he accepted the bags, knew that he was dying to count the coin, but unable to do so, not at the moment. It was a sign of respect for a gladiator’s integrity, accepting the contents of the sack at face value.
Tucking the coins into his waist pocket, Lucius looked to Doctore, the men’s trainer. Doctore had been standing behind Lucius, but now moved forward, two large palm leaves in his scarred, rough hand. These leaves represented a slave’s freedom. This was what many of the gladiators in the arena fought for, survived battles for.
Doctore turned to Marcus first, as champion, and handed him a large leaf. Though I stood on the far side of the yard, I saw a moment of wonder cross Marcus’ face. He then handed the second leaf to Caius. The less reserved of the two, he allowed his face to break into a wide grin and held the leaf in the air, above his head.
I wondered what it felt like, being handed their freedom. Then I realized that I already knew, for I had achieved freedom of my own that day.
The men erupted into a huge noise, a din the likes of which I had never heard before. Though they were losing comrades, their brothers were obtaining freedom, and the other men celebrated. Surely each dreamt of the day when they, too, would earn the same.
When I heard that cheer, and saw my warriors wade into the crowd of men who hugged, slapped backs, and tousled hair, my toes curled in the dust at the base of the gate. I bounced impatiently up and down, anxious beyond words, but knowing that my men had earned this moment. It seemed hardly any time at all that they had broken free of the pack and were walking toward me.
Yes, walking toward me. Coming for me.
I still could scarcely believe it.
Marcus stood on one side of me, Caius on the other. After a sidelong glance exchanged among the three of us, Marcus reached forward and pulled at the wood.
The gate, still unlocked, creaked open. A small slit, it widened, getting bigger and bigger, until it framed my two warriors, framed me.
I saw that both of my men were wearing proud if slightly stunned expressions.
I imagined that mine was exactly the same.
Together we stepped out of the dust of the yard, out of the sands of the arena. I inhaled deeply, then turned back toward the ludus.
I watched the gate close, watched the figures inside fade from view, and felt not even the smallest speck of regret. With a smile, I bade it all farewell, and looked to my warriors, who were gladiators no more.
Each wore his light tunic with pride, and each had a small leather pack slung over his shoulder. Those packs contained all of the possessions that they had in this world, but none of us was overly concerned with that.
Better even than the new tunics, each man held a large, waxen palm leaf in his fist.
They were now free men. Their lives were their own.
And so was mine. So was mine.
GLOSSARY
Balteus: a sword belt.
Bulla: a locket given to Roman children to ward off evil.
Carpentum: a common type of Roman carriage or wagon.
Charon’s obol: the coin placed in or on the mouth of a dead person before burial or cremation. Possibly a bribe for safe passage to the underworld.
Cingulum: a wide leather belt, often reinforced with metal, worn about the waist by gladiators to protect from injury to the vital organs.
Dacia: a region of Central Europe during the Roman era, inhabited by the Dacian people.
Denarii/Denarius: the common silver coin of Roman currency.
Diana: Roman goddess of the hunt and the moon.
Domina: the feminine form of Dominus.
Dominus: the title meaning master or owner, particularly of slaves.
Doctore: the trainer of gladiators at a ludus.
Familia: family, a very important concept in Roman civilization.
Fortuna: Roman goddess of good fortune.
Gaul: a region of Western Europe during the Roman era, inhabited by the Gaul people, or Celts.
Juno: Roman goddess of community and fertility.
Litter: a type of human-powered transport, usually consisting of a lounge or bed attached to four posts, which are manned by people, usually slaves.
Ludus: a gladiatorial school.
Manicae: Wraps of leather and cloth worn by gladiators as arm and wrist padding.
Mars: Male god of war and virility.
Munera: provided by the wealthy, these were public works to benefit the masses. One of the most common munera was the arena games.
Orcus: a Roman god of the underworld.
Palla: a Roman woman’s shawl.
Pater familias: the head of a Roman family.
Patria potestas: power that the male head of the family exercised over his family, even over his grown sons.
Patrician: refers to the elite families of ancient Rome.
Pits: The common term for the quarry from which building stones were mined. The stones, which were used for nearly all buildings in ancient Rome, were mined by slaves.
Pyre: a structure for burning a body as part of a funeral rite. Usually made of wood.
Roman Sumptuary Laws: ensured that the clothing worn by a person indicated their class and social standing.
Senator: a member of the Roman senate, a political institution and advisory/governing body in Rome. Senators were not elected, but appointed.
Spartacus: the leader of a major slave uprising against the Roman Republic.
Subligaculum: the brief garment worn by gladiators to protect their modesty.
Thrace: a historical and geographical area in Southeast Europe, inhabited by the Thracian people. The most famous historical Thracian was considered to be Spartacus.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are always so many people who have a hand in creating a book . . . and I always forget one. Let’s give it a try! First, to J.L. Stermer, an awesome agent who helped give this book life, and Chelsey Emmelhainz, one of the best editors I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. Along with Chelsey, thanks to the other lovely people at Avon who worked their magic on this book, especially Gail Dubov, who created the spectacular awesomeness that is this cover! For my Sirens and Scribes critiqu
e group, the most rockin’ group of ladies you’ll ever find—Juliana Stone, Amanda Vyne, D.L. Snow, Barbara J. Hancock, Grace Conley, Nini Angell, Elle Ricci, Cora Zane, and Suzanne Rock. These ladies are cheerleaders, editors, promoters, and lemon drop martini enablers. Love you all! To my day-job co-workers, for not shaking your heads too much when you find bits of scribbled nonsense beneath my keyboard that have nothing to do with optometry. To the Calgary chapter of the RWA . . . you are all fantastic people, and so inspirational. To my parents and sister, for cheering me on. To my son, Ben, for napping so that mama can write. To Starbucks and the Rocky Mountain Bagel Co. for the caffeine. Let’s see . . . who else am I forgetting . . . oh, right. Most of all to Rob, for believing in me so much that I had to start believing in myself.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LAUREN HAWKEYE is a writer, theater enthusiast, knitting aficionado, and animal lover who lives in the shadows of the great Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada. She’s older than she looks—really—and younger than she feels—most of the time—and she loves to explore the journeys that take women through life in her stories. Visit her online at www.laurenhawkeye.com.
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COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MY WICKED GLADIATORS. Copyright © 2012 by Lauren Hawkeye. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition MAY 2012 ISBN: 9780062196897
Version 08102012
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062196958
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