Blood of a Gladiator

by Ashley Gardner

  The Clivus Pullius was a winding path that led up the Oppian Hill. On its first curve, near the spot where it intersected with the Clivus Suburanus and the Vicus Patricius, I found Gallus’s shop.

  The architect’s small office did not open to the street like the others around it, but I saw the painting of a libella on the wall—an A-shaped frame from which hung a plumb line. I peered in through the open door and saw Gallus standing over a tall table, drawings spread before him.

  “Ah,” he said when he spied me. “My gladiator friend who is a builder at heart. Have you decided to lend your assistance?”

  I wished I could. The small room brought back memories. I’d done much manual labor, as the builder utilized my strong back and arms, but I also remembered the scattered tools, the drawings, the scent of marble dust and travertine, the muddy smell of concrete.

  The man I’d worked for hadn’t held the lofty title of architectus, but essentially he had been that, working in a small provincial town near Rome, building homes for the plebs but assisting with a few villas as well. I’d followed him in wonder, silently absorbing all.

  “I want to ask you about Floriana’s house,” I said to Gallus. “The lupinarius.”

  Gallus was surprised but nodded. “Ah, yes. The new owner has decided to pull it down, though I told him the walls and roof could be saved. He wishes to put in a row of shops and apartments above it, another insula in a city full of them. Well, at least I can make sure the thing is stable.”

  Insulae falling down around their inhabitants, killing many, was unfortunately not rare. Landlords wanted the buildings constructed as cheaply as possible and didn’t bother with maintenance afterward.

  “Who is the new owner? You said his name was … Livius?”

  “Sextus Livius.” Gallus scratched his forehead, leaving a streak of charcoal from his marking stick. “He owns an insula on the Aventine and shops in the Carinae. Known for buying up derelict properties and imposing his will on them.”

  “Who did he buy it from?” I asked. “Floriana?”

  “No, I do not believe the lady of the house owned it. Let me see …” Gallus rummaged through a haphazard stack of tablets and rolls of papyrus, opening scrolls and tossing them aside. Cassia would be appalled at his careless system.

  “Ah, here we are. This is a copy of the contract. Livius bought the building from one—let me see—a lady, Porcia Caelius, wife of a senator called Decimus Laelius Priscus.”

  I stilled, my blood growing cool. “Priscus.”

  “Yes.” Gallus perused the document, not noticing my sudden tension. “Purchased from her widower, rather. She had owned the building, but it passed to her husband upon her death.”

  “Her husband.” My mouth was dry around the words.

  “Indeed.” Gallus glanced at me over the open scroll. “Do you know the fellow?”

  “I’ve met him,” I said grimly.

  There was no reason Priscus would have told me his wife had owned the building where Floriana ran her house. I was a bodyguard, a nobody. Priscus had only imparted information about himself on the road to Ostia because he’d wanted to converse to assuage his worry.

  Cassia had mentioned that those who wished to acquire property sometimes did so by ruthless means. Had Livius wanted the building and kindhearted Priscus wouldn’t turn out the tenants, and so Livius had killed Floriana? Or had Priscus been restricted on selling the building with tenants in it, even prostitutes?

  Something tightened in my stomach. I’d hoped I could simply run Floriana’s killer to earth and make him take the blame. An easy solution. Untwisting property ownership and motives for acquiring or selling it made my eyes itch.

  “Thank you,” I told Gallus, and turned to leave.

  “Now where are you off to?” he called behind me.

  To see Priscus, but I did not tell him that. “Errands. Good day to you.”

  “You seem quite interested in that house, Leonidas. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Gallus sounded genuinely willing to assist, but I had to wonder about his motives as well. He longed to make his name as an architect—he could have found an opportunity with a house in a cheap district occupied only by women who sold sex.

  “No.” I glanced around his shop, liking it and hoping I was wrong.

  “Do come and see me if you decide to return to building,” Gallus said as I stepped out the door. “I need another assistant.”

  I nodded and took myself away, heading in a steady stride toward the Esquiline and Priscus’s luxurious domus.

  Two clients waited outside Priscus’s door. He did not have many compared to his neighbors—on my way, I passed houses where the clients filled the benches and spilled into the street, men waiting patiently for their turn with the paterfamilias.

  The middle-class man, the one who’d saved Priscus’s life by drinking poison meant for him, was again in the vestibule. His face screwed up in annoyance when I appeared. The second man I’d not seen there before, but that client kept his eyes on his boots as he slumped on the bench.

  The lad at the door ran inside when he saw me. Soon he reappeared and beckoned me in, earning me a snort of distaste from the Equestrian.

  Celnus met me and disdainfully led me, not to the garden, but to Priscus’s tablinium.

  “He is very busy,” Celnus snapped before he pulled back the curtain of the tablinium and announced me.

  “Leonidas.” Priscus, in spite of Celnus’s insistence, sounded glad to see me. “How are you, dear boy? How is Cassia?”

  A man who asked after a slave was unusual, but then, Cassia was an unusual slave.

  “She is well.” I said nothing more, and Priscus glanced at the majordomo, who hovered.

  “I’ll speak with Leonidas for a time, Celnus. I’ll call you when we are finished.”

  Celnus sent his master a cool look but turned and stalked away. He left the curtain drawn back.

  “He belonged to my wife’s family,” Priscus said apologetically. “Freed upon her father’s death, but he wished to continue working for her. To keep an eye on me, you see.” His smile was thin. “Dear Porcia married beneath her.”

  “You are a patrician.” Rich or poor, patricians had lineage stretching back to the old Republic.

  “Yes, and Porcia’s was of the Equestrian class. But my family never had much power, in spite of our name, and never any money to speak of. In Celnus’s opinion, my wife shouldn’t have glanced at me twice. But I am very glad she did.”

  The sorrow in his eyes struck me anew. Priscus had loved her well.

  “She owned property,” I said abruptly. I glanced behind me to see if Celnus listened, but he’d retreated to the atrium, where he and Kephalos conducted a discussion in low but heated voices.

  Priscus blinked. “She did. Rather, her father did. All over Rome and around the Bay of Naples. I’m not sure of all of it. Celnus looks after that part of the business.”

  “One building was sold recently. A house in the Subura. It was used as a brothel.”

  Priscus’s brows went up. “Was it? Well, that old devil. I had no idea. I wager my wife did not either.”

  “Did you know about the sale?”

  Priscus shook his head, the very picture of innocence. “I told you, I don’t delve into the business much. I help my clients and those of my late wife’s father—she was his only child. She had married before, but she kept all the properties she’d inherited from her father, and kindly passed them to me and to Decimus. But the accounts are beyond me. I’m a soldier, not a merchant. Celnus and Kephalos take care of all of it.” Priscus gestured to where Celnus and Kephalos continued to whisper together.

  The two men did not like each other, I could see. They held themselves stiffly, though they bent close to converse.

  “Do you trust them?” I asked.

  “They have never given me reason not to.” Priscus’s answer was stiff. “My wife trusted them.”

  Yet, he claimed to know nothi
ng about the properties his wife owned and let the two servants, one a freedman, one a slave, handle all his accounts. They could be selling houses and siphoning off the money for themselves, and Priscus would never be the wiser. I wondered what Cassia would make of their accounts.

  “The man who bought the house is a speculator,” I said. “Buys up empty properties and turns them into insulae or shops.”

  “Many in Rome do,” Priscus said. “So I’m told. My wife’s father did the same.”

  “Do you know the man who bought this particular house? Sextus Livius.”

  Priscus studied the ceiling in thought. “Can’t say I do. My acquaintances tend to be old campaigners, like myself. We reminisce about battles, making them far more glorious than they truly were. We rarely talk about property or speculators.”

  I read no duplicity in him. Priscus appeared to be what he claimed, a former general who’d found happiness with a wife who’d happened to be wealthy. Now he had little left of her but his memories. And all her money, I reminded myself.

  “Why do you want to know this, Leonidas?”

  I saw no reason not to tell him the truth. “A woman was killed, and I do not wish to be blamed for it. She lived in the building you sold. She died the morning we rode out to Ostia.”

  “I see.” Priscus rocked on his heels. “I will be happy to tell the magistrates you were with me that morning. You were right beside me, and you couldn’t have done it. Unless you committed the deed beforehand, of course.”

  Exactly what a magistrate would say. Priscus could only know about the time he was with me.

  “The building was sold very quickly after that,” I said.

  “Yes, so it seems.” Priscus’s face darkened. “Celnus,” he called into the atrium. “Attend me, please.”

  Celnus broke from Kephalos and moved to us, not hurrying. His slow stride said he obeyed only because he was obligated to.

  “Sir.” He bowed when he reached Priscus.

  “Leonidas tells me you sold one of my properties, soon after the woman who lived there was killed.”

  Celnus did not appear startled, shocked, or guilty in any way. He gave Priscus a smooth nod. “As the house was now empty, and it was a … brothel, I am sorry to say … I felt you no longer had need of it. A man was willing to purchase, so I took the liberty of selling it.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a brothel,” Priscus said. “A man must tend to his needs, and that is what they are for. As long as he doesn’t become a fixture there or behave without honor.”

  Celnus gazed down his nose. “The buyer offered a very good price.”

  Priscus waved a hand at him. “You see, Leonidas? A straightforward business transaction. Though I’d have been pleased if you or Kephalos had told me of this,” he said sternly to Celnus.

  “Kephalos was preparing to inform you, in his monthly report on your finances.”

  “I’m certain he was.” Priscus softened his tone. “Never mind, Celnus. I simply wanted to know. But please do not sell any more properties without speaking to me first.”

  “Of course, sir.” Celnus was good at being unctuous. He bowed again to Priscus, sent me a veiled look, and glided away.

  “It never does any good to shout at him,” Priscus said once Celnus had vanished beyond the atrium. “He only gives me that heavy-lidded stare.”

  “Did Kephalos belong to your wife as well?”

  “No, no. I picked him up on a campaign years ago. He’s brilliant, if a bit close-mouthed. He and Celnus loathe each other, but they both know a soft place when they find one.” Priscus chuckled, self-deprecating. “Thank you for trying to help me.”

  I’d wanted him to help me. “Would you mind if Cassia examined your accounts? As a favor to you,” I added when Priscus frowned. “She’s very good at accounts.”

  “You mean with Kephalos being none the wiser?” Priscus again thought, then looked crestfallen. “No, he’d never let her near. Never mind, Leonidas. Even if he is cheating me a little, I don’t feel it.”

  He might not feel it now, but in future it could trouble him. I recalled a senator’s wife who’d once had an affair with Regulus. She’d believed her husband’s finances healthy and untouchable, until the senator discovered one of his clients had been embezzling from him for years. Their riches disappeared overnight, and the senator and his wife had moved to a remote province to make ends meet. Regulus had regretted the loss—she’d been generous with gifts.

  “All has been well here?” I asked. “No more attempts on your life?”

  “None.” Priscus gave me his beneficent smile. “As I say, Leonidas, the gods look after me.”

  No, people looked after him, and he didn’t realize. I wished I could question Nero closely—he must know exactly who wanted Priscus harmed. But I knew I would not be able to speak to the princeps merely because I wished it.

  Cassia and I were left to find out for ourselves.

  I said none of this to Priscus as I bowed and took my leave of him.

  On my way home, I was followed again. I knew it with every step. Before I turned to the Vicus Longinus, which led toward our apartment, I ducked into a tiny lane, startling an elderly woman who sat on the pavement, weaving dried grass into a basket. I leaned against the wall, waiting.

  My patience was rewarded when I heard rushing feet along the main street, and then a person in a cloak darted past, a male figure this time.

  I stepped out right behind him. The man did not notice me but strode on past another few shops, before he halted in frustration, scanning the crowd ahead.

  I leapt forward and seized him before he could react, dragging him into another side lane, my arm looped around his throat.

  The cloak fell from a shaved head, and enraged eyes glared at me. It was Regulus.

  Chapter 17

  Regulus twisted from my hold, and I quickly stepped out of his reach. If he had a knife, he’d use it. We eyed each other uneasily.

  People widened space around us, some moving on as rapidly as they could, others halting to stare. Two gladiators facing each other on the street was something to watch, or a danger to avoid.

  An older man with half his teeth gone asked excitedly, “Are you going to fight? A denarius on Leonidas.”

  Regulus beamed the man a huge, false smile and flung his arm around my shoulder. “Never. I’m thanking Leonidas for sparing my life. All hail the champion of the games.”

  His hold on me tightened as those around us cheered. Some looked relieved there wouldn’t be a bloodbath on the cobbles today, some disappointed.

  “Another time,” Regulus said into my ear. “Be waiting for me, Leonidas.”

  “Why don’t you want to live?” I asked him. “Save your winnings, buy yourself free.”

  “I do want it … now. But that moment when I asked you, old friend, you denied me. I could have gone out a hero. Now you’re the gods-damned hero.”

  “No.” I broke from him but without force, as the people around us continued to watch. “Now I’m no one.”

  I turned on my heel and strode away.

  I found Cassia hunched over the table at home, studying the markings she’d etched onto her wax tablets at the site of Floriana’s murder. She’d unrolled a piece of papyrus, already covered with writing, and had drawn in curving lines, labeling them with marks that looked Greek. I knew only one Greek letter, theta. A theta next to a gladiator in a mosaic or other picture meant he was dead.

  Cassia did not look up when I entered, her focus entirely on her notes. Her dark hair made a precise curve over her cheek to the nape of her neck, where it was caught in a small knot. She’d claimed to know nothing of hairdressing, but not one lock of hers was out of place.

  “Priscus’s wife owned Floriana’s building,” I announced as I discarded my cloak. “It was bought by a man named Sextus Livius. Priscus claims he’s never heard of him.”

  Cassia raised her head. She touched her finger to the papyrus as though marking her place.
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  “His wife?” Her surprise melted, and her gaze went remote. “That is very interesting.”

  I sat down heavily on my stool and rested my arms on the table. “Priscus knew nothing of the sale. His majordomo and scribe did it for him. I want you to look over his accounts.”

  The surprise returned. “What is your idea? That Celnus and Kephalos killed Floriana in order to sell the building to a speculator? Perhaps because the speculator offered a large amount of money?”

  I nodded. “And the two of them—or maybe only one—pocketed much of it. I wonder what the price was, and what Priscus actually got.”

  “Mmm.” Cassia touched her stylus to her chin as she liked to do when thinking. “Yes, I can imagine Kephalos building up a fortune for himself, one sestertius at a time. He strikes me as a resourceful man, and tight-fisted. He certainly tried to wriggle out of paying us our full share for the Ostia trip.”

  I noted she always said “we” and “us” when she talked about my bodyguard post and the payment for it. As though we were a unit.

  And perhaps we were. I’d never have found the job if Cassia hadn’t hunted for it. I’d have remained in bed, asleep.

  “Would their accounts tell you? I asked Priscus if you could have a look at them, but he claims Kephalos would never allow it.”

  “I see.” Cassia continued to tap the stylus, leaving a pale streak on her chin. “Kephalos is clever. If he is embezzling, he’ll have hidden his crime well. He might not let me see the books, but I can converse with him and perhaps make him say more than he intends. Kephalos is a bit more forthcoming to me, because I speak Greek.”

  “I wonder if Priscus speaks it.”

  “No.” Cassia’s lips twitched. “He does not. A source of contempt for Kephalos. Yes, I will speak to him and Celnus, and see what I can find out.”

  She gazed dreamily into the distance, as though enjoying thoughts of interrogating the arrogant scribe.

  “What does all this mean?” I waved at the sketches.

  Cassia straightened the papyrus page. “Diagrams of the place Floriana was killed. Here is the Porticus Octaviae.” She touched her stylus to a straight line labeled with letters. The river, a wavy line, was obvious, but she’d written words there too.