A shadow passed across his letters, looming over his shoulder like an omen.
“Scratching in the dirt is no good for a warrior,” advised Rhakshna. “Those things, they’ll make you sick in the mind. Maybe she wants you that way, eh? Weak, like her.”
“Would you cross the steppes without knowing how to ride a horse? This is where we live. This city. Think about it. You’re not stupid.”
“You can go back.”
Anazâr laughed as he rose. He felt nothing more than rueful nostalgia, echoes of old pain at the worst. He’d burned the blood from that wound. “The very name of my people means free. I can’t go back.” Not now. Not like this.
Even if he could go, even if he were not a marked man, even if he were free to leave this place, how could he ever look his brother in the eye, knowing Marianus had had him on his knees?
He looked directly into Rhakshna’s dark, guarded eyes. “We’re dead to our people, Sarmatian. I don’t imagine yours look kindly on warrior women captured alive.” An educated guess. He tensed in preparation for the potentially explosive reaction.
“Fuck me, you’re right. I’ll not be going back either. At least in this shithole I know I won’t have to die old.” She spat to the side and stalked away.
Once she’d gone, Anazâr heaved a heavy sigh and returned to his letters, crouching like he’d seen generals do over strategy. But the lines seemed to wash together, individual symbols curling into each other in tangled nets and chains. Any scrap of meaning he’d recently fought for, lost to him once again.
“Cyrenaicus?” More distraction. The boy Rufus approached. Anazâr rose again, not too quickly—Rufus was easily spooked. “I’m supposed to give you this.” He held a scroll.
The Aethiopian hurried over, snatched it from Rufus, and began to read aloud. “Attack, defense, front, back, left, right, above, below! Excellent. Oh, and this combination of letters is to be pronounced much the same as a death rattle, according to the side note. Very good.”
“Felix?” asked Anazâr, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
“Who else?” She raised an eyebrow. “Here, I believe this is meant for you.” She turned over the scroll, pointing to a crude drawing scribbled into one corner: two figures, both in equestrian togas, one with . . . yes, that was an erect cock depicted in loving detail. Felix’s cock, Anazâr had to assume, judging by the obscene, egotistical size of the thing. The drawing of Felix was locked in a cage, like one used for lions, and outside it the other figure stood with a key in one hand and what looked to be writing implements in the other, tongue stuck out in an obvious taunt. Marianus?
It told Anazâr three things: one, that Felix’s punishment for his various misdeeds was well underway and was the reason for his absence; two, (shamefully for Anazâr) that Felix knew Anazâr to be illiterate; and three, that knowing this, Felix still cared enough about Anazâr’s estimation of him to put out the obvious effort required to communicate with Anazâr personally so as to offer an explanation for his absence.
“Very well,” said Anazâr, and turned to hide the twitch of a smile. When he surveyed the women again, he made sure to banish all traces of mirth. “To your armor, gladiatrices! You’ll jump like frogs in a frying pan this morning. No more lazy legs. Move!”
No hesitance. No grumbling. They did.
“I’d hate to bore our guests with talk of business,” warned Aelia while she cut a piece of honeyed pastry. Her tone was light, and she spoke through a smile.
“Give me! Give me!” Lucullus’s chubby hands flailed, snatching for the pastry, which Aelia tidily kept out of his reach, not even acknowledging his cries. “Nooooo!”
“But this is gladiator business, so it’s rather exciting! Please, Marianus, let your man make his report.” Aelia’s matron companion turned a gleaming, somewhat horse-like smile toward the couches where the men reclined, before her roving gaze landed wide-eyed on Anazâr, who stood against the wall. Hungry, that was the expression. But for what?
He quickly looked away. No, not at Felix. Too late. Felix smiled, eyes threatening something unspeakably disruptive.
“If our other guest is agreeable,” said Marianus. The young man by his side nodded vigorously. Gladiator-struck too. But then, what Roman wasn’t? “Aelia?”
“Oh, all right. Here, Lucullus, I’ll let you have a piece if you share with your father. Take it to him. Go on, but be careful!”
Lucullus rushed over to his father, the pastry flopping precariously back and forth. Marianus took a portion, ruffled his son’s hair, and sent him back to his mother with a pat on his padded bottom. “Good boy. Cyrenaicus, step forward and make your report.”
Anazâr tucked his hands behind his back, stepping forward and fixing his stare somewhere just above Marianus’s head. He took a moment, hoping it looked outwardly like he was composing his thoughts. In reality, his throat was stuck with a knot; something about the sight of Lucullus pained him in a way he couldn’t name.
“Training proceeds well. Some of the women will be able to fight in heavy armor. In the next month, I’ll know enough to assign specializations. The top fighters are Rhakshna the Sarmatian, as expected, Enyo and Penthesilea, both Gaul women, and Cheruscia, of the Germanic tribes. I would match any of them against the lowest rank of gladiator and expect an excellent fight, or in the case of the Sarmatian, certain victory.”
“Will they be fighting men?” asked the young guest. Anazâr realized he must be the wholesaler’s son from Pompeii. He stifled a grin remembering Felix’s antics with the scroll, but when the full import of the question sunk in, even his silent laughter died. Up against men in the arena. Most of the women did not have the arm strength, the weight, the killing urge. He could only pray to the gods that the fights would be held to submission.
“Probably not. I don’t know,” said Marianus. “That’s a thorny issue at the moment, because the administration of the games isn’t wholly under control of the aedile any longer. I can’t rely on him for definitive match guidelines, and it’s rather frustrating.” He shrugged and twisted his mouth into a stoic half-smile. “We need to be prepared for all eventualities.”
“Fighting naked?” asked the young man.
Aelia sighed as she adjusted Lucullus, who had gone to sleep in her lap. Her companion groaned audibly.
Felix rose from his reclining couch. “If that’s the kind of fight you want to see, I know just the place! The women are well-oiled and deliver the finishing stroke with the help of a clever little harness—”
The young man punched his leg, barely wincing at his own blow. “By Hercules! That’s exactly the sort of—”
“I don’t think so,” interrupted Marianus. “My brother will be leading no expeditions any time soon.” He turned to Anazâr. “Was his lexicon of the German tongue of aid to you?”
“Yes, Dominus. Very much so.” Anazâr caught Felix’s gaze and held it. “Thank you.”
A soft smile, performed for no one, passed as quickly as a cloud overhead.
“No expeditions,” Felix quoted. “I’m a prisoner in my own home, you see. I hear my brother thinks me a murderer, or at least a conspirator to the same, and we all know it’s impossible for men to commit such deeds when they share close quarters . . . and a staff of watchful slaves, I suppose.” He turned his cruelest smile on Alexandros, who stood silent vigil by the wall and gave him no reaction. Felix wasn’t disheartened, though, and strode across the floor with the confidence and grace of a seasoned orator. “But then, Marianus Lucius stands a lanista, now, so there’s no supposedly impossible task that men of the house of Marianus haven’t risen to, isn’t that right?”
“Oh dear,” said Aelia’s companion. “Perhaps I should retire.”
“No,” said Aelia. “Felix, who is being an ass, will retire.”
Marianus nodded and flicked his fingers dismissively in Felix’s direction, not even bothering to glare at him. “Go.”
“I’ll go, and wish for Mercury’s winged san
dals. Or a grappling hook to scale the walls. I’ll go mad as the women of Thebes, caged here, and you’ll be a bunch of sorry bastards when I start biting off chunks of my own arm and spitting them at you . . .” His voice trailed off into an aggrieved mumble as he stalked away from the dining room.
“His imagination is fevered,” said Marianus to the gaping dinner guests. His tone was calm and unperturbed; Anazâr couldn’t help but admire his resistance to Felix’s near-godlike powers of perturbation.
“He has always been so,” said Aelia, and tsked softly. “Shall we return to the subject? Dear husband, perhaps you could order a public demonstration of the gladiatrices? That way, we could all see the progress of their fighting abilities, and, of course, the excellent training of Cyrenaicus.”
“I’ll have it done. Four days from now. Mark the date.” Marianus turned his gaze to Cyrenaicus. “You can fight one of your pupils, and arrange another match between them. Blunted weapons for now, although in another month I’d like to see one with edged, to submission.”
“Yes, Dominus.” Four days until they faced the crowd for the first time. Another thirty-eight days after that, and Anazâr would send them to face their likely deaths. Another word from Marianus, and he’d kill them himself.
Marianus turned to his guest. “My man here is also ex-cavalry, and no doubt a good judge of horses. Would you like to take him with you to the race tomorrow? He can advise you on betting.”
“What a wonderful proposition!”
“Dominus, I—the training is at a stage that’s—every moment with . . .” The words fled. He felt himself on dangerous, shifting ground. The women deserved their greatest chance, though, and wasn’t Marianus a just man? “I stand ready to fulfill your orders in any way, of course, but perhaps my time would be better invested with the gladiatrices.”
“Insolence.” Marianus’s guest raised a hand, as if to strike.
“No,” said Marianus, raising a hand of his own, this one to forestall. “Honesty. My offer was ill-planned.” He smiled at Anazâr. That sign of forgiveness sent a warmth curling in Anazâr’s chest, freeing him to breathe easier. “The pursuit of pleasure should not detract from the conduct of serious affairs. I’ll have Alexandros find some other guide for you, Titus.”
Anazâr would have liked to suggest the Sarmatian, but he didn’t trust her not to kill when angered. Gods willing, she would learn.
Lucullus woke up crying, then, and the party drifted apart. Marianus left with an arm around Aelia’s slim shoulders, pausing to nod at Anazâr in acknowledgement, in reinforcement of his forgiveness.
Now that the masters had left, Alexandros stared at Anazâr, studying his face, intense focus written across his own.
“What is it?” Anazâr asked, feeling unnerved.
Alexandros’s gray eyebrows knitted together. “Nothing. For now. Continue to step carefully, Numidian.”
Anazâr fully intended to follow Alexandros’s instructions. However, it seemed the Fates conspired against him at every turn. The very next morning being the first.
“We could just continue walking,” argued Amanikhabale. “After all, if walking to the end of a street and back again is good exercise, then walking down and up one of the seven hills, well, wouldn’t that provide a superior result, thus increasing our value to our most beloved and financially astute master?”
Their morning rounds were tedious, true. Sometimes porters passing to another warehouse would attempt to flirt with the gladiatrices, or a granary cat would cross their path. Today, the street was empty, and therefore safe.
“No,” replied Anazâr. “Orders. We stay close.” He picked up the pace. Amanikhabale to his left and Enyo to his right both followed suit. He escorted them two at a time now.
“If challenged, we would have an excellent excuse. And a detour to deliver a letter—”
“Enough! I will have it delivered to Cassia’s family by some other means.” Via Rufus or another household slave entrusted for deliveries, that was his intention. “Why do you press so hard?”
Amanikhabale puffed up in indignation. “You ask me to look after the woman. I look after the woman. Now you ask me why?”
“Yes. When I set you to the task, you begrudged it. Now you attend it with single-minded purpose. Why?”
Enyo walked silently alongside them. If she was curious, she didn’t show it. It emboldened them both to speak more freely than they ought to have in front of a third party. “I always dedicate my entire self to a task. I’m the consummate slave. Anyway, I’m concerned that whoever receives the letter may not be able to read it. If I deliver it myself, I’ll know for certain its meaning is understood.”
If only she’d put the same verve into her gladiatrix training.
A third voice cut in before Anazâr could say as much. “I can’t mistake the sound of intrigue. Will this be a comedy of the slapstick sort, tunics torn and sausages flung and all that?”
Fuck Fortune for a whore. Of course this situation would slide further out of his control. Felix stepped around the corner of the warehouse. He’d been lurking, no doubt.
“Master Felix!” Amanikhabale greeted sweetly. Enyo stopped in her tracks, face gone tight, an expression Anazâr mirrored, if perhaps for different reasons.
Felix bowed to them all, paying no mind to the less favorable reactions. “Hello, my Nubian warrior goddess. Causing strife for our gladiator friend, are we?”
No, that’s your role, Anazâr almost said with some bitterness. “Thank you for the scroll,” he muttered instead. “Why are you here?” He stepped in front of Amanikhabale. His intent was to form a barrier between them, to keep Felix from disturbing the hard-won order he’d established, but being closer to the man was disturbing in and of itself.
Felix sighed. “I was—” he raised both eyebrows and twisted one corner of his mouth “—curious. Or bored. Oh, I don’t know. This isn’t about me, this is about you. And your Aethiopian, who has a fire in her eyes that I’m not going to try to piss on to put out.”
“Delivering a letter to a nearby insula would be a wonderful diversion for you,” said Amanikhabale, who from the sound of it was actually leaning out from behind him in order to address Felix. “Much more diverting than the construction of disgusting metaphors. In fact, I carry a letter this very moment.”
Anazâr’s heart lurched. “Absolutely not.” I’d never trust him with anything so important. Not for myself, and not for my gladiatrices either. Cassia would be better off going without.
But despite his racing thoughts, he looked to Felix with an expression schooled into that of a placid, obedient slave. An expression he didn’t often take on with Felix, who didn’t seem to require it. No. He just hadn’t earned it. That was all. “I’m sorry, Dominus. She spoke out of turn. She had no right. Excuse us. We’ll be going.”
He needed to get away. He needed to get away immediately, before this situation spiraled out of control. Felix wasn’t worthy of trust. Unlike Marianus, he wasn’t even worthy of respect—and no matter how Felix smiled and jested and lulled him into a false sense of security thanks to their strange companionship, Anazâr couldn’t let himself forget it.
“Don’t be ridiculous, gladiator. Of course I’ll deliver a letter. How else am I to occupy my days now that I’m penniless? Perhaps if I perform the task well enough, I could make a business of it. What do you say, a letter-carrier for slaves, now there’s a profession with—”
“This is serious,” Anazâr growled, unable to hold his tongue. “A mother separated against her will from her daughter, trying to comfort her child in her absence. Even you must be able to understand the depth of feeling between a mother and her child.”
Even a childless, severed man such as myself can at least imagine it.
“Better than you might assume,” Felix acknowledged in a low, meaning-laden voice. His face had fallen, and in that moment, Anazâr heard Enyo swallow thickly. She had just enough Latin to understand, then. Families left behind: a pain
all slaves shared that could never be alleviated or soothed.
The sadness that had settled around them vanished as Felix smiled again. “Give me the letter, then, and I’ll see it faithfully delivered. I wouldn’t keep a mother from her child any more than I’d keep myself from the breast of a beautiful woman.” At the last, he looked to Amanikhabale meaningfully, but the flattery missed its mark.
She produced the letter. “The directions and descriptions are contained within.”
No more games; Felix took it solemnly. Some part of Anazâr still imagined that Felix would toss it over his shoulder, or read it aloud like a comedy to passersby, but he merely touched it to his lips in a gesture that was both thoughtful and affectionate, and then tucked it away safely into the folds of his toga.
Then he turned and walked away, down to the end of the street, crossing the invisible line that separated the strange, stagnant tide pool of their lives from the greater sea. Anazâr, left standing behind, was suddenly struck by the realization that he trusted Felix far too little . . . and simultaneously, far too much.
In the scant days leading up to the exhibition match, Anazâr had introduced the practice of showman skills.
“This is alien to the battlefield of real soldiering,” he’d explained to the dubious gladiatrices. “And I am sure some of you know that well.” The Germans, once Amanikhabale translated his words with the aid of Felix’s scroll, nodded in agreement. He knew, now, that they’d fought defensive positions in the encampments of their wandering, warlike tribe. “But in a gladiator match, dramatics can, and will, save your life. The crowd is inclined to spare those who entertain them.”
Too much flashy swordwork left you open to a killing stroke; too much grim efficiency and ground-grappling lost you the love of the crowd. He’d done his best to explain the balance, even if he hadn’t been able to follow his own advice during his time in the arena. The arena he’d be returning to, if he couldn’t convince Marianus it was worthwhile to grant his freedom.
Mark of the Gladiator Page 9
