Slaves will gossip. And Anazâr was a slave. One tired of playing at loyalty, no less. If Marianus was so intent on treating him like a snake . . . well then.
“Don’t say this came from me.” What lies should I spread? No, worse to tell a half-truth. “But I’ve heard that Aelia has been having an affair—with Marianus’s full knowledge. They attempted to blackmail her patrician lover so he now seeks permanent removal of Marianus through hired killers. I heard it from a friend of a slave of her friend.”
The Greek gaped, moved to slap his palm against the wall . . . and comically arrested himself at first contact with the scalding stone of the calidarium. He blew on his fingers and made a hissing noise. “Fuck me with a galley oar! It’s almost too sordid for belief, but oh yes, I can very well believe it. Whose side is Felix on? Or is he taking it up the ass from Aelia’s lover as well?” He looked terribly pleased at that prospect.
Anazâr shook his head with feigned regret. “I heard he’s decided to flee the city until this all calms down.”
“You’ve heard wrong, then. He’s kicking around all over Rome. Marcellus, Pomponius, the widow Metella, they’ve all hosted him. Never stays in one place long, looks mopey, keeps scribbling notes and tearing them up, and papyrus isn’t cheap these days, I should know—”
“Cyrenaicus!”
The name, unwelcome to his ears, had been called by one of the guards. Time for Anazâr to leave.
Damn Felix for a stubborn fool.
The new swords did come.
Starting that day, he worked with each woman on her greatest weakness.
For most of the Gaul women, that weakness was pain. Not the kind of pain that wracked the body—he had the vague intuition that women were, indeed, accustomed to such suffering, perhaps more so than men—but the short sharp pain that signaled your opponent had forced past the barrier of your skin. Had inflicted their rough will upon you, and would do so again.
Submit. Surrender. Panic.
They had to learn to ignore that signal.
He ordered them through interminable drills, sometimes striking them himself against padded heads or arms with a wooden staff, sometimes directing them to inflict pain upon each other. Blood rarely ran after these sessions, but bruises flowered plentifully.
With Rhakshna, he worked on flourishing skills and safe submissions.
“A gladiator is a valuable investment,” he explained. “At the highest level, they fight only a few times a year. If you bring a man down and kill him without express direction, especially a man who’s worth much more than you, the punishment could be severe.”
“But he may not have the same concern for me, if I’m worth less, eh? Fucking Romans. We don’t bother with this financial shit where I’m from. We just kill them all and take their things.” She grinned, baring teeth, and resumed her stance without being ordered.
The Germans fought without flinching, but they were only now beginning to understand his directions for attack and defense techniques. Newly entered into common language, he began to differentiate them and understand their close bond. Their old master had named them in an arbitrary fashion after different German tribes, but they were all Cimbrians, all kinswomen. Cheruscia was a daughter of a headman and was adored by the others, either for heritage or for some other reason.
Batavia, the most expressive, came to him one day. “Man,” she said, and pantomimed, thrusting her jaw out to give her face a masculine cast. “Man of us fight. Attack, defend. Fight?”
He wondered at first if she was making a statement about the nature of their tribe. But after more sessions of awkward pantomine, he began to comprehend the true, pragmatic intent.
Would they ever have to face a man of their tribe in the arena? A husband, perhaps, or a brother? The thought sickened him.
He had no answer.
Anazâr hadn’t seen the domus Marianus—or the man himself—for half a month. Not since he’d been taken in chains to the garden.
So when Quintus arrived that evening and announced Anazâr would be making his report there, it took him completely off guard.
Quintus must have been feeling generous, because he caught Anazâr’s perplexed expression and grunted in acknowledgment of it. “The aedile in charge of next month’s games will be there. He wants to take a look. I’ve been told to bring along the Aethiopian and the Roman, too.”
Amanikhabale’s plan had been set into motion.
On the street, Cassia let her hair fall down to cover the brand on her cheek, keeping her head down as well. The hubbub of the darkening streets appeared to confuse her, and she staggered on several occasions. Every gain she’d made in the last month steadily disappeared as they were escorted into the shaming light of the master’s world.
Amanikhabale kept her eyes straight ahead, betraying no sympathy, no love.
No rebellion.
No rebellion.
Anazâr crafted his gaze with all the care of an architect. Neck bent forward, chin tilted slightly downward, eyelids half-lowered. I fear you are displeased with me, the look said, or at least he hoped it did.
He had never taken on such a pose with Marianus, not even on the day he’d been brought before him in chains. He’d always held himself with slightly more pride than that, as much pride as a slave could have, and it took this day and this pose to realize that.
The aedile was a cricket of a man whose senatorial toga, with its broad purple stripe, gave him the only weight of presence he possessed. In contrast, Marianus, seated next to the aedile in the study, blazed all too vividly, centering the world around himself.
He’ll see through me. Pry away this mask. Rip me open.
“Ask Cyrenaicus,” said Marianus. His tone toward the aedile was neither rude nor particularly deferential.
The aedile coughed. “I originally had some concern the gladiatrices would give a weak show. But after the unfortunate incident at the demonstration, I now find myself faced with quite the opposite concern. Women thirsting after blood instead of bleeding it—heh, heh.” By the time Anazâr realized it might be wise to force himself to chuckle, the aedile had thankfully moved on. “Well, bitches such as those might not be suitable for the entertainment I had in mind. Dwarves, gladiator. Dwarves! I shall have women fighting dwarves. And dwarves, of course, are dreadfully expensive.”
Far more expensive than women, he didn’t say.
Marianus nodded at Cyrenaicus, giving him permission to speak.
“I’ve trained the women in proper submission technique, Dominus. I believe they would give a good show. For best results, I would suggest a rehearsal. Perhaps even a choreography.” Cautious good news, he told himself. A comic performance, held after the serious bloodshed, and no one need die. No casualties except their dignity. “As for the question of weapon—gilt swords or dulled steel—I believe that would depend on armor.”
“I suppose nudity would be a bit over the line, a bit excessive,” grumbled the aedile, putting a particularly displeased emphasis on the last word. It made Anazâr’s skin crawl. Since Felix’s revelations, Anazâr had become more protective of the gladiatrices.
“I can offer a substantial discount,” said Marianus. “But given the farcical nature of the event, I’d rather not have my name bruited about as lanista.”
“Yes, yes, quite understandable. But the praetor and I will be sure to mark this as a favor. We have a terrifically violent main spectacle planned: a threeway battle between Greeks, Parthians . . . and lions! Don’t speak a word of this, by the way, or I’ll have you crucified, gladiator. Because it’s a surprise. But we were sorely lacking in the comic slot, and your women will be perfect.”
Anazâr gave a curt nod.
Crucified. Damn the man for saying it with so little care. No, not just saying it. Meaning it as a threat with so little care. If the power of a master was a mantle to be worn about the shoulders as a constant weight, then the aedile’s must be made from the diaphanous silk of distant Serica.
H
e prayed this trial would be over soon. That he’d be sent away from these watchful eyes, away to deliver his merciful news and breathe the anxiety out of his body. If any gods heard, however, they didn’t act on his behalf. Instead, he remained in excruciatingly statuesque stillness, eyes lowered, as Marianus and his guest conversed further, paying Anazâr as much mind as the mosaic on the wall.
When at last the aedile took his leave, Marianus’s gaze fell on Anazâr seemingly for the first time. Anazâr knew that look, knew that tense, anticipatory posture.
“Cyrenaicus.” Marianus’s voice was as gritty as sand.
Nothing had changed.
Everything had changed.
Anazâr’s heart pounded against a ribcage that felt crushed smaller than it should be. The whole world seemed to tilt to one side.
“Dominus,” he heard himself saying. A strange wind picked up the word, carrying it away, taking some part of Anazâr with it.
“You’re dismissed,” said Marianus.
Cassia sat on the low stone step of the atrium’s colonnade, hugging her knees, a far-off look in her eyes. He wondered if she’d seen a songbird.
He stood beside her. They waited in silence.
“I feel like I’m my own ghost, haunting myself,” she said at last.
She had a raw, strong-boned beauty, but suffered the blows of life as badly as glass. He’d seen so many people break over the years. Not again, oh gods.
“Wait,” he told her. “There are other lives depending on yours now. You have to wait.”
Amanikhabale walked into the atrium. She sat next to Cassia, their shoulders not quite touching. Their hands, however, did. The knuckles of Amanikhabale’s hand were clenched shockingly pale against brown skin.
“I’m to go back to the warehouse,” she said. “But they’ll be moving you on. Everything will be well.”
“Yes,” whispered Cassia. “Everything will be well.”
He moved a few columns away to give them a moment of peace.
A tarpaulin covered with a layer of sand served as practice ground for their falls.
The dull thud of Penthesilea’s head raised a puff of fine sand and a corresponding growl from Anazâr. “Your chin was not tucked in!” he shouted. “Do it again. Correctly.”
She staggered to her feet and dutifully plodded back to the corner where the sequence—jumping, tripping, falling, rolling—was marked to begin. Hunching down, she rolled her neck in a circle, and narrowed her eyes. Evidencing such laudable determination, he judged that she’d master the sequence by the end of the day.
The mood among the women had improved with the news that their first combat would be a relatively bloodless affair. Yes, Cassia’s disappearance had at first unnerved them, but like all slaves, the gladiatrices were accustomed to sudden departures and the lack of farewells.
Anazâr told them she must have been requested for other duties. They didn’t speak of her anymore.
“You’ll have to lash me, you balls-cut maggot, before I set myself to this choreography.” Rhakshna had reacted to the news in a quite opposite manner to the rest of the women. As a consequence, she remained shackled. Shackled and glaring. “You tell those Roman cunts I’m a fucking warrior! A warrior! If they set me to fight a fucking dwarf with a toy sword, I’ll stab the little bastard in the eye and use his warm body as a springboard to launch into the fucking stands! I want Roman blood!”
“I’ll just leave you shackled until the games, then, and tell Marianus his fierce Sarmatian has a powerful terror of dwarves and isn’t fit to fight.”
Her stream of shrieking curses echoed off the walls, the vicious barrage causing Penthesilea to stumble.
It was an easy way out, leaving her shackled like this, hoping she’d come to her senses and perform dutifully on the day. And although she was a competent fighter, it was stupid of him to cut her practice short. But ever since the news of the dwarf fight, his mind had moved onto seemingly more important battles, ones with actual life-or-death stakes. For him. For Felix. For Amanikhabale and Cassia. What if they weren’t strong enough to fight their way out of the city?
All pressing concerns that weighed heavily on his mind, far heavier than Rhakshna’s unpredictable mood. But one weighed even heavier still: what if Marianus had another killer in mind for Felix? The Aethiopian’s plan was mad, but held the glimmer of a hope of success. Though if Anazâr wasn’t there to intervene . . .
He couldn’t afford to dwell on it. He left Rhakshna behind, and in the line of those awaiting their turn, he tapped Amanikhabale on the shoulder. “You. Come with me over there. We’ll work on swordplay.”
She nodded.
Anazâr pushed her harder than ever, but no word of complaint crossed her lips, not anymore.
That night, he stared at the blank wax tablet until his lamp guttered out.
His will to learn was as strong as always, but grief and dread weighed too heavily on his shoulders for him to even lift the stylus. The letters . . .
He imagined Felix slashing lines across precious paper, a look of otherworldly concentration in his eyes. The letters, writhing together like coiling snakes, like outstretched limbs in an erotic tableau.
He lay back and imagined Felix’s concentration again, this time shifted to a different context. Felix, kneeling studiously between his legs, serving him with single-minded intensity. His stunning eyes. His wet tongue, darting and thrusting.
In the part of his mind not ruled by desire, the plea of leave this city still resounded. Even as he stroked himself to completion. Even as he drifted into sleep. Leave this city. Leave this city. Leave this city.
By my love for you, leave
Rain pounded down from the black sky. Two house slaves stood in the peristyle garden, holding a protective covering over what Anazâr assumed were the most delicate of the flowering vines. The slaves looked miserably wet, but at least the summer night was warm enough to save them from fever.
If Jupiter did not relent, they might be standing in the garden all night.
“Come,” said Alexandros. “The Dominus and Domina are ready to see you now.”
He led Anazâr into the room farthest from the street, the richest room of all . . . and the only room in the house that had a door.
“Close the door behind you,” said Marianus. He was seated next to Aelia on an ebony couch slung with leopard fur.
Alexandros left. The door closed. The sound of the rain abruptly ceased, then drifted back into his ears as a chorus of murmurs, eerily human-like. He fell to his knees and stared at the ground, melting himself into a mold of submission and desperation, the one feigned and the other true.
“Rise,” said Marianus. “You’ve pleased me. You made errors, but you’ve done much to redeem yourself. I bought your contract from Iunius today. You belong to me fully.”
You belong to me.
He’d thought he was used to being owned, to being another man’s property, but hearing it now filled him with cold dread, as if he were standing at the edge of the world and looking down into the abyss. Aelia had taken him to this place before, at the warehouse. It would mean something like relief to finally fall.
He stood. “Thank you,” he said.
“After the games tomorrow, you’ll have another chance to prove yourself in my service. I’ve concluded, with heavy heart, that my brother is trying to have me killed.”
And now it begins.
“The first attempt was a ruse, to shift future blame,” added Aelia. “We’re sure of it. For the sake of this house, for all our safety, we cannot allow him to succeed. Marianus has long overlooked Felix’s evil intent out of loyalty to their father. But my husband is most certainly not the soft-hearted fool that Felix believes him.”
“No,” said Marianus, and stretched a protective arm over Aelia’s shoulders. Months ago, the sight would have pulled Anazâr’s heart into his throat. Now, he . . . noted it, and drew a look of discomfort and vague anger onto his features, simply because that was what
Marianus desired him to feel. “A fool I am not. I’ll give Felix one last chance. One last test. I’ve sent a message from a supposed friend that I’ll be asleep in the house of one of my freedmen on the outskirts of the city, where I keep a mistress. If he comes there to kill me, his own life must be forfeit.”
This is my time.
“Dominus,” said Anazâr, and fell to one knee like the soldier he’d once been. “I will not hesitate. I will not falter. This house is my life and your word is my law.”
“And I promise to protect you, of course,” said Marianus. “No one will know. And you would be freed.”
A freedman. How many times had Marianus said that word to Anazâr? Made that promise? Anazâr would have done anything to see it fulfilled, to see himself bound in service to Marianus that way. And now it seemed such a pale and impermanent thing in comparison to Alexandria.
“My fortune is in your hands,” said Anazâr. “It will always be so.”
“I take great joy in your loyalty,” said Aelia, smiling. “I was full of natural fear. Fear for my dear husband’s life, fear for the future of my son. They have an able protector now.”
“The time is set for the day after the games,” said Marianus. “If this hateful rain continues—”
There was a knock at the door.
Marianus’s voice rose greatly and took on a hint of anger. “Alexandros, I am not to be disturbed.”
“I apologize, Dominus,” came the muffled voice. “But it’s a courier from the aedile. He seeks urgent audience.”
Marianus was striding to the door the next instant. The touch of his hand against Anazâr’s shoulder was fleeting, but shocking to the core. Hopefully his shiver would be taken for gratitude or desire. And then Marianus was gone.
“Come a bit closer,” said Aelia. Her smile had vanished. “I’d have words with you. Very honest words. And I’m quite relieved I don’t have to go to that fetid warehouse to have them.”
Mark of the Gladiator Page 17
