The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome)

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The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) Page 19

by Jennifer D. Bokal


  “Are you certain you are not chilled? Your neck is covered in gooseflesh.”

  It was. She hated that Acestes brought out a reaction in her at all. “I am fine,” she said.

  “You are more than fine,” he said. “You look beautiful.”

  “I appreciate your compliment,” Phaedra said. And she did. She had spent extra time on her appearance and felt beautiful. For the evening, she had chosen a silk gown of emerald green. Terenita had wound gold-and-silver ribbon through the curls of Phaedra’s hair. She had taken such care not for Acestes or the other patricians, but for Valens. She had done it all for Valens.

  “You wear the necklace I gave you.”

  “My father insisted,” she said.

  “I am glad he did.” Acestes led her to the atrium. To prove that he had not been offended by her rude comment, he added, “I am also pleased that you listened to your father. Perhaps you will start listening to his advice on other matters as well.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But I doubt it.”

  Acestes laughed. “You plan to greet my guests with me, of course.”

  “I have thought about that,” she said, irritated that he took her rebukes as part of a game. “I find that I must decline. I want the elite of Rome to focus upon you and your splendid party. I would only serve as a distraction.”

  “As widow to Marcus, you should be beside me. It is your right to have a place of honor. Of course, I could speak to your father.” Acestes continued, “He would see that I am right and insist. Or you could see what is right on your own and stop being an obstinate donkey.”

  Had he spoken to her thus? The nerve! Well, she would never, ever give Acestes what he wanted. Phaedra looked away. She spied the statue of a donkey, standing in the corner, ridiculously holding baskets of olives. Was she also ridiculous and stubborn?

  In the end it would matter little. If she continued to refuse, Acestes would follow up on his threat and involve her father. With a long and weary sigh, she said, “If you wish.”

  “Thank you,” said Acestes. “There is no one else with whom I would rather greet my guests.”

  Phaedra hated herself for acquiescing. Not only did Acestes now assume she was agreeing to much more than she ever wanted to give him, but once again she had failed to be the strong, decisive woman she had become during her years away from Rome.

  For more than twenty minutes, Phaedra stood at Acestes’s side and greeted one prominent Roman citizen after another. Many offered her their condolences. For the first time in many days, her grief for Marcus resurfaced. He had been a good man, a wise man, and Phaedra wondered what advice he might give her now.

  She was speaking to the wife of a senator, a matron long known to Phaedra, when the air in the room changed. It became heavier, softer. Her pulse quickened. Without seeing Valens, she sensed his presence. She glanced at the line of waiting guests and saw him at once.

  A dozen people back, a group of muscular men stood together. They shuffled from foot to foot, ill at ease with their new surroundings. Valens did not. He stood tall, with his shoulders back. His chest rose and fell with breath—his only discernible movement. He kept his gaze trained on Phaedra. And yet his eyes gave away nothing.

  Did he hate her for standing and welcoming guests with Acestes? Or did he care at all? Of the two she preferred his anger to his apathy.

  She spoke to the people who separated them but heard little of what they said. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears and fluttered at the base of her neck. Before long he stood in front of her, and her pulse crashed in her head like waves upon the shore. What did she expect from Valens? What did she want? Wanting and having were two different things, and he greeted her without giving away the intimacy they had shared a few nights past.

  His hand touched hers and a spark, like the striking of flint, shot through her arm. Valens must have felt it, too.

  She tried to meet his gaze, to somehow show Valens that he still lived in her heart and her mind, always. Now that they were close, Valens never looked directly at Phaedra. She blinked away tears of desperation and regret.

  A fit man, a part of the group of gladiators, approached Phaedra. “I fought at your wedding,” he said.

  “You? I could have sworn my father hired Valens Secundus.”

  Valens turned her way. Still, she read nothing of importance in his expression. “He did, my lady, but I could hardly fight myself.”

  The other gladiators laughed, not meanly, but Phaedra felt the heat of color rise in her cheeks. An older man with white hair stepped forward. “I am Paullus Secundus, Lanista, and these are my gladiators. You recall Valens Secundus, I see.”

  Phaedra inclined her head to Valens in greeting.

  “And this is Spurius Mummius Baro, the current Champion of Rome, who also fought at your wedding. We did not know at the time that the two titans of the arena would meet in your garden that night. The Fates must have been smiling upon you, my lady.”

  She studied Valens in profile. A sprinkling of black hair on his jaw made her think he had shaved that morning and not since. “I do believe you are right, Paullus.” She turned her gaze back to the lanista. “The Fates were with me on my wedding night.”

  The group moved to speak to Acestes. Phaedra watched as they passed. Valens looked over his shoulder and winked so quickly she thought she might be mistaken. He had done that on her wedding night, too. Still a girl, she had stood next to Marcus and watched in awe at the strength and power of Valens. He had seen her, sensed her, and had made that simple and yet lasting connection. If he had not, then she never would have spoken to him later that evening all those years ago.

  Without his wink, she would have never met the man Valens Secundus, never loved him.

  Without Valens having encouraged her to bargain for her next husband the night of her wedding, she would never have found the courage to speak to her father. That first step, to acknowledge that she too mattered, was the greatest she had yet to take.

  She greeted a few late-arriving guests. Still by Acestes’s side, she made her way to the main triclinium, where everyone stood about with cups of wine as slaves passed by with trays of food and drink. Phaedra accepted a cup of wine and stood near her father and Acestes as they talked to a conservative senator about plans to renovate the building where the tax collector was housed.

  Fortunada approached and linked her arm through Phaedra’s. “Tell me what you know of the gladiator who fought at your wedding.”

  How had Fortunada guessed about her night with Valens? Although Phaedra should not have been surprised at her lifelong friend’s perceptiveness. “Valens Secundus? What do you think I know of him?”

  “Not him. The other one. His looks please me.”

  “To be honest I did not recognize him at all. His name is Baro, or some such.”

  “He is the new Champion of Rome.”

  “Or so his lanista says.”

  “So everyone says.”

  It gave Phaedra joy to see Fortunada excited about something. She looked around the room, hoping to find the gladiator who pleased her friend so well. A banquet before funeral games was the only time that gladiators were welcome guests in the homes of Rome’s elite. As the sponsor, Acestes held an obligation to meet the men who might die for his entertainment and provide them with one last meal.

  Aside from the important men of the republic and their wives, Phaedra noticed quite a few patrician widows. Not the ancient kind of widow, either, but younger women who would want to spend time with a virile man. She assumed those women attended to make lovers out of the gladiators. It seemed as though Fortunada wanted that, as well. For a moment Phaedra felt disdain for the women, her friend included. For love, she and Valens had defied convention. Perhaps in knowing that they loved one another, she felt superior. Then the reality of her situation came to her, and she realized that she was no better than they. Or perhaps she was worse, for Phaedra wanted to be with Valens always. The other women simply wanted a companio
n for a night, a much more sensible desire.

  In the corner she saw the lanista, Paullus Secundus. Their eyes met for a moment, and he inclined his head. “Come,” said Phaedra, “let us see what we can learn about your pleasing gladiator.”

  “Lanista,” Phaedra said as they approached, “you must tell me your secret to having such winning gladiators.”

  “My lady, I did not know the games interested you.”

  “They do not, but my friend here”—she pulled Fortunada forward—“says that you have had two champions at your ludus. One champion sounds impressive, but there must be more to it for you to have trained two such successes.”

  “I think my gladiators fight well for me because I respect them as people, my lady. I know all of Rome looks upon gladiators as being in the lowest profession. At the same time it idolizes these men. At my ludus they are trained to fight and win. That is all.”

  Phaedra had not really been looking for a serious answer to the question, but to give them something polite to discuss. Yet it comforted her to know that Valens had been treated with respect even when he was a slave. “How do you think your Valens will do in his three fights? They are all to the death, and my understanding is that this is unusual.”

  “He is not my gladiator, not anymore, although I allowed him to return to the ludus to train. No one has ever tried to fight three times in one week, so I cannot answer your question. No one beat Valens during his career, but he retired two years ago. No one can win forever.”

  Phaedra’s palms grew clammy. She gripped the sides of her gown to still her trembling hands. A world without Valens seemed not a place to live, only to survive. “You said he trained with you. Is he not still an accomplished fighter?”

  “He is,” said the lanista, “but he trained only a few days. He needs months.”

  “He will make a fine showing,” she said, more to ease her own fears than anything else. Paullus answered anyway.

  “These fights are to the death. There is no fine showing, only winning and dying,” he said.

  “Still, I wager he will win.”

  Paullus shrugged both shoulders. “The odds are against him, my lady.”

  “Odds? Real wagers are made on these contests?”

  “Even after all your travels, in many ways you are so naive,” said Fortunada. “Of course people bet on gladiator fights.”

  Phaedra ignored her friend’s rude comment. “Just out of curiosity, what are the odds on Valens Secundus winning all three fights?”

  “One hundred and fifty to one, my lady,” said Paullus.

  “Someone with coin to spare might make a tidy profit,” said Fortunada. “Pity that I have little coin at all.”

  “Many ladies from your social class use their jewelry to secure a wager,” said Paullus.

  “Pity that I have even fewer jewels than coin,” said Fortunada.

  Phaedra forced herself to laugh with the other two, although secretly it distressed her that the odds of Valens winning all three bouts were so low. She noticed Fortunada looking away and followed her gaze to the gladiator Baro. Phaedra agreed that he was pleasing to look upon with his short, dark hair and skin the color of freshly minted copper, although not as pleasing as Valens.

  She twined her arm through the lanista’s and pulled him toward Baro. “I would have a word with you,” she said, “but first we must leave my friend in good company. The dark-skinned gladiator is one of yours, is he not? He said he fought at my wedding.”

  Paullus began to lead the way. “Baro, come here, I want you to meet someone. I need to discuss business with Lady Phaedra. You will entertain her friend and see that she comes to no harm?”

  Baro smiled at Fortunada, his teeth straight and white against his dark skin. “Of course, Lanista. I will do anything to honor the ludus.”

  Dark, with thick muscles, Baro looked like the opposite of Fortunada, with her light hair, fair skin, and long legs. Yet the two made a matched set, and Phaedra doubted that her friend would miss her as she moved away with Paullus.

  “Shall we walk in the garden while there is still some light?” Paullus asked.

  Phaedra guided Paullus to the garden. A few other people milled about, enjoying the cool breath of evening. They nodded to each other in passing. Near a statue of Daphne, caught in the moment when flesh turned to wood, the older man paused. Phaedra settled down on a nearby marble bench. “You wish to make a wager,” he said. “I know how crude it is for the aristocracy to speak of such things, but I assure you I can handle the details with the greatest discretion.”

  Phaedra never wagered, had not even when she was married to Marcus and had a vast fortune to command. She started to correct Paullus’s mistake, but stopped before she spoke.

  She could place a bet. By placing a wager on Valens, she demonstrated a belief in his winning. Like Fortunada, Phaedra had no coin. Perhaps she could persuade her father to place the wager. No, she wanted to personally bet on her lover.

  “The necklace you wear must be worth a quarter of a million sesterces,” said Paullus.

  Phaedra touched the emerald that hung round her neck. The skin under the jewel tingled. “Explain to me how this works.”

  Paullus stood taller. “You entrust me with what you wish to wager, say, your necklace. I have a jeweler with whom I work. I sell the necklace to him, on your behalf, and then take the coin paid and place a wager. I take care of all the details, and no one need ever know of your involvement.”

  “If I bet this necklace on Valens winning all of his matches and he won, how much coin would I receive?”

  Paullus paused and mumbled to himself for a moment. “More than thirty-seven million sesterces. Call it thirty-four million after my commission for arranging your wager.”

  Thirty-four million sesterces. The possibility left her dizzy with possibilities. She would never have to worry about money again. True, it was less than Acestes had by tenfold, but it was more than she needed. She reached behind her neck and loosened the clasp. “Bet this on Valens winning all of his games.”

  “My lady, you understand that no one thinks he can win them all. That is why the odds are so high. He is expected to win his first match. The odds are three to two. You would still make one hundred and twenty-five thousand sesterces after you bought your necklace back. Not a bad investment.”

  She believed in Valens and his invincibility, because to do anything else was to accept his death. “Take it.” She held out the necklace and wondered what Acestes would say when he noticed its absence. Yet if she won, then Phaedra need never care what Acestes thought or noticed again. “I am not very fond of this piece of jewelry.”

  Paullus took the necklace and slipped it into a cloth sack he wore at his waist. “I shall make the bet first thing in the morning and pray that Fortune smiles upon you.”

  “I pray for the same thing myself.”

  “Now, if you will excuse me,” said Paullus, “the opulence of villas such as this leaves many of my men ill at ease, and nervous gladiators rarely win. I must return to them.”

  In the first moments of twilight, the leaves and flowers of the garden were losing some of their vibrancy, but with the sun setting, the heat diminished. Like the villa itself, the garden sprawled in many different directions. Flower beds lined gravel paths. Arbors hung overhead. Trees, heavy with the scents of fruit and flowers, stood nearby. Alcoves formed by the contours of the house lay hidden behind the greenery. Yes, the garden, very much like the villa, was a grand place, or could be, if tended to. But its neglect was evident as spiny weeds poked out of flower beds and gangly flowers fought roses and jasmine for soil. Dead branches reached out from trees that needed pruning.

  Phaedra heard footfalls on the gravel path. Without looking up, she knew Valens had come.

  “I thought I might find you here,” he said.

  She turned. Her mouth went dry, yet she smiled because to look upon Valens brought her joy. Muscles created hard planes and deep divides on his arms and
legs. His broad shoulders and tall posture showcased his power and vitality.

  He wore a short-sleeved tunic of burnt orange. The color brought out coppery strands in his dark brown hair. His eyes showed more green than hazel. His tanned shoulders held the slightest tint of pink, and Phaedra guessed he had spent most of the last two days training out of doors. She noticed a deep purple bruise on his thigh. Phaedra reached out to touch it, but stopped lest she embarrass them both. “You are injured.”

  “I am a gladiator,” he said. After a pause, Valens added, “Again.”

  “I heard,” she said. “I also heard of the circumstances. You are a very brave and noble man, Valens Secundus.”

  He shook his head. “I failed my sister. That is why she strayed.”

  “I do not believe you failed her for a moment.”

  “I wish that were so,” he said. He gestured toward the bench on which she sat. “Might I join you?”

  “I am not sure that my virtue is safe with you around.”

  He stared, openmouthed.

  Phaedra made room for him on the bench. “It was a joke. Apparently, not a very good one.”

  Valens chuckled as he sat. “No, it was funny. I just never imagined you to be one to tease.”

  “It appears that with you I can be convinced to try many new things.”

  He moved closer. His arm grazed hers and Phaedra’s innermost muscles tightened.

  “Good,” he said. “I worried that you regretted what we had done.”

  “I will never regret being with you.”

  He moved closer still. Her flesh tingled in the spots where they touched. Shoulder to shoulder, side of hand to side of hand, knee to knee. In the garden, even in nooks such as where they sat, they might still be visible if someone knew where to look. The heat from his body and his scent of leather and costmary washed over her. She no longer cared who saw or what they thought.

  And yet, tomorrow Valens might be dead. If someone saw them tonight, she would be alone and ruined. She hesitated, then moved aside so their shoulders and knees no longer touched. The sides of their hands still rested one by the other. She needed to tell Valens about the guards who watched his home and his sister. Although it was a betrayal of Acestes, Phaedra never considered it dishonest. Her loyalty belonged to Valens.

 

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