He turned and faced me, sword held loosely in a practiced hand. Only the best of the legionnaires became Praetorian Guards, and they trained daily. Tullius moved lightly on the balls of his feet. He might not be able to escape, but he could kill me and Cassia and shut our mouths..
“Continue,” Nero said as I assessed Tullius. “Fight him, Leonidas. Here and now. My own gladiatorial game.” He smiled, entertained.
“No more killing,” I said quietly. “I’m not a gladiator anymore.”
Nero skewered me with an impatient stare then switched it to Cassia. “Are you certain your records, or whatever you have in that sack, will prove that this guard conspired against me?”
“Yes.” Cassia hugged the bag to her, fear on her face, but her answer rang with conviction.
“Good.” Nero returned to me. “To the death, Leonidas. If he lives I might pardon him. If he loses, you will be his executioner.”
I met Nero’s gaze before I quickly averted mine. I regarded the guards at the door, three on each, then Tullius, and finally Cassia, alone and protected only by Gallus. If Tullius won free, he’d kill her—I saw that in his eyes.
I flattened my lips, making my choice. “I’ll need a weapon.”
Chapter 24
Nero made an abrupt gesture to one of the guards. The guard came forward, grim-faced, unsheathed his sword, and handed it to me. His look at Tullius as he stepped away was one of unhidden disgust. Tullius could count on no help from him.
I closed my hand around the hilt, hefting the sword. It was different from the blade I carried in the games, the secutor, a short, stabbing sword. This was longer and heavier, with an edge that would slice.
I’d trained with many different weapons, though I preferred something more compact than what I held. I also was used to fighting in loincloth only, which though it made me more vulnerable, let me move freely. I’d have no arm or shin guards either, and no shield.
But even in tunic and boots, standing on cold marble instead of hot sand, I knew I could win.
The walls fell away. The sunshine of a warm Roman day fell upon me, and I heard the spectators begin to chant.
In the next instant, the games were gone, and I was in the dirt of Aemil’s ludus, jabbing my wooden sword at the posts alongside Xerxes while Aemil bellowed commands at us.
I saw Xerxes’s grin spread across his face before he turned on Aemil in a mock attack. That attack had him thrown to the ground, Aemil kicking him, Xerxes laughing all the way.
I thought I heard Xerxes now, his good-natured drawl behind me. You can take this feeble son of a whore, Leonidas.
I heard Aemil as well, his Gallic accent conspicuous. Watch him—he’s tricky. Even if he is a pretty Praetorian.
Xerxes again. He nearly killed you, murdered Floriana, and tried to attack Cassia. Don’t let him win, Leonidas. I’d be so ashamed.
Then the voice of Regulus, No more death? Stupid bastard. You’re a gladiator. You embody death. You’ll never leave it behind.
The voices faded, and the walls of the Circus Gai returned, along with the noise. Nero sat in his box in purple and gold, his jewels glittering in the sunlight.
I saw Tullius, his affability gone, a trained killer in his place. He raised his sword.
I ran at him, sidestepping at the last minute when he braced for my attack. While he readjusted to keep me in sight, I whirled, aiming the sword for his unprotected back.
Tullius ducked in time, using his momentum to spin in a circle away from my descending sword. Lithe and fast, he countered with his own sword, poised to thrust it upward into my heart.
I deflected the blow, and our blades rang. I hated having no shield, but Tullius didn’t have one either. He was right-handed, his left side open and exposed.
Praetorians were military elite, often having campaigned as legionnaires in Gaul or Britain or the East before taking up a position in Rome. Tullius had captained a vigile troop, who were also trained military men.
I saw that training in Tullius’s moves, which were tight, practiced, deadly. If he planned well, he could escape this room and probably the palace, but the rage in his eyes told me he’d rather remain and slay me, the man who’d betrayed his plans.
We circled each other warily. The chamber was silent, our watchers riveted on our every move. I saw Cassia’s eyes fix on me as she rested one hand on a marble pillar, the glittering stones inside it catching the light.
Tullius attacked me with sudden and rapid blows, pushing me across the floor as I deflected. He got a lucky blow to my sword arm when I reached the far wall, sending a gush of blood over my skin.
“Coward,” Tullius snarled. “Face me.”
I’d survived forty bouts. Thirty wins, eight draws, and two losses. It would be carved on my tomb.
The losses had been my first fights, and I’d been spared because the crowd liked how well I’d fought. After the second time, I’d vowed never to be at anyone’s mercy again.
Tullius’s insult flew past me and evaporated to nothing. I growled in my throat, Leonidas the Gladiator finished with hiding in his cell.
The sound of the crowd returned, infusing my strength. LEE-O-NI-DAS. LEE-O-NI-DAS.
I joined the shouts with a wordless one of my own. I pushed from the wall, smearing the marble with scarlet, and slammed myself at Tullius, using my bulk to shove aside his sword arm.
He danced out of the way, coming back to slash at me viciously. Blood splashed as I spun aside, the sting of the cut barely noticeable.
I smashed my sword at him. Tullius parried. The fight turned furious, each of us raining blows onto the other, aiming for arms, stomach, neck, head. Tullius grunted and cursed while I retreated to deadly silence.
We went around and around, me using my strength and experience, he his quickness and skills. We were evenly matched. He bled from shallow cuts, as I did. If he broke any of my bones, he’d move in for the kill—this bout would not end in stans missus, a draw.
Tullius danced around me, light on his feet. He pretended to go for my exposed side then drove his sword at my face. I quickly turned my head, but not fast enough. I braced for the blade to slide into my unprotected skull.
The blow never reached me. Tullius jerked at the last minute, the sword sweeping wildly askew. I blinked and wiped sweat from my eyes to see Cassia tugging her heavy bag by its strap back to her feet. Whether she’d lost hold of it on purpose or by accident, I couldn’t say, but the bag had tripped Tullius and ruined his aim. I wanted to laugh.
Gallus quickly pulled her back to the wall as Tullius, in his fury, swung on her. I rammed myself into him, forcing his attention to our fight once more.
I realized I’d been letting him score hits on me because I felt sorry for him. Tullius had committed treason, and in spite of Nero’s claim that he might pardon Tullius if he won, I was certain the man would head for a miserable death.
His willingness to attack Cassia sealed his fate. I steadied my sword and went at him. I would be his executioner, as Regulus had begged me to be his.
Tullius met my blows with energy. I hammered at him with strength and precision as much from Aemil’s training as the master-builder’s when he’d taught me to hone blocks of marble long ago. The crowds in my head urged me on.
I floated on the noise as I stabbed and parried, using my left fist to both punch and fend off blows. Finally I darted forward and seized a handful of Tullius’s dark hair, twisting his head to bring him to his knees.
Tullius stabbed upward, going for my heart. I swiftly bent out of the way and struck his sword hand with my knee. His grip slacked, and then my kick sent the sword skittering across the floor.
I had his head bent back, the sword point at his throat.
Tullius glared. “Kill me.” His voice rasped in the echoing room. “Do it.” With the chanting crowds in my head, I barely heard him. Iugula! Iugula! they bellowed, urging me to finish him.
“Do it now,” Tullius said furiously.
He�
�d face torture and execution if I spared him. His name and his family, whoever they were, would be dragged through scandal and shame. Tullius’s body would be broken, his death not pretty. As a citizen he’d avoid the more bizarre forms of execution in the arena, but he’d die a traitor. Nero would not be kind.
My sword hesitated. No more death, I’d vowed. And yet, I’d found that death and violence did not stop with the games.
Regulus was right—we were gladiators. Dealers in death. It followed us.
I firmed my grip, ready to strike the killing blow. At the same time, Cassia, who’d dropped her bag again, gave a little cry and fell to her knees.
I jerked my head up as Cassia landed on her hands, gasping for breath. Gallus hurried to her, while Nero took a few steps back, as though fearing she might contaminate him.
Tullius began to laugh. “It seems I miscalculated. My misfortune.”
For a moment, I could only frown in confusion. Then I abruptly recalled the wine brought to us by the servant as we waited for Nero to summon us. I’d been too restless to partake, and so had Gallus. Cassia was the only one who’d drunk.
Tullius must have poisoned the wine. He’d tried to kill us before we could reveal his crimes. No wonder he’d been so surprised to see us when he’d entered Nero’s chamber.
This rushed through my head as Cassia began to convulse.
She was the one person in all the world who’d steadied me in my uncertainty, who understood we had to survive on our own, and who’d gone at that survival with hard-headed resolution. Without Cassia, I’d have swum in circles and sunk, not even understanding I was drowning. She’d been the rock that had held me up without me realizing it.
Now she would die.
“Why?” I roared.
Tullius abruptly ended his laughter, his fury surging. “Because he killed my father, that’s why!” His glare cut to Nero. “He decided my father supported Britanicus and tried to block his way to the throne. Brought my father to trial on trumped-up charges, when my father had done nothing. A misunderstood conversation, a rival happy to ruin my family. I was already in the legions, a long way from home, in bloody Damascus, and I couldn’t get back to stop any of it.”
Tullius gasped for breath, his eyes fixed in his rage, as though he’d forgotten I gripped him, ready to end his life. “I had a new purpose—work through the ranks and become a Praetorian Guard. I changed my name in case he got any ideas to slay me as well.” He pointed a shaking finger at Nero. “The money my mother left me helped me plan. I didn’t need it for myself—it all went to my goal. No one pays attention to the guard at the end of the room—I heard him talking one day about Priscus and the strange bargain that Nero dies if Priscus does.”
His laughter returned, rasping in his throat. “Terrified him. Easy to take advantage of such a thing—I make certain Priscus dies, and then watch while Nero is assassinated. I wouldn’t have to do a thing! A whore and a fool of a patrician and his insipid son are small sacrifices compared to what he did to me. So is your slave.” Tullius shifted his gaze to me, savage triumph in his eyes. “You should have died from that poison, Leonidas. Remember that when you weep at her funeral.”
Spittle flecked his lips—his rage was complete. So was mine. His lack of remorse about Cassia sealed his fate.
I tightened my grip and plunged the sword into Tullius’s throat.
Blood poured over my hand, hot and wet. The wrath left Tullius’s expression, replaced by gratitude, even relief. Then his eyes emptied, and he died.
Nero began to speak. I had no idea what he said. I flung Tullius’s body and sword aside and ran to where Gallus held Cassia. She shivered, eyes closed, face waxen.
I lifted Cassia from Gallus and cradled her close. “Fetch that wine,” I barked at Gallus. “Hurry.”
Gallus, understanding, stumbled from me and rushed to the door. The guards tried to stop him, but a command from Nero made them part.
I turned with Cassia in my arms, looking for a safe place to lay her down.
Nero was clapping his hands, issuing orders to slaves rushing into and out of the room, a few dragging away Tullius’s pathetic body. “Take her to a chamber,” he ordered one bunch. “Fetch my physician. She’ll have the best of care.”
“No.” My snarl made the princeps of the Roman Empire stop and regard me coldly. “Send for Nonus Marcianus, from the Aventine. He’s the best physician in the world.”
Nero continued to stare at me then he gave me a nod and snapped another order at his slaves.
The shaved-headed man reappeared as more guards surrounded Nero. “You,” the man said to me. “Bring her.”
He turned and marched out of the room, not bothering to see if I’d follow.
Chapter 25
The shaved-headed man took me to a room with a sleeping couch, hangings screening it from the passageway outside it. It was a small chamber with plainer decorations than any I’d seen in this domus.
Cassia was limp and gray-cheeked by the time I laid her down, her breathing shallow, lips blue. I knew she’d not last the night.
The wait for Marcianus stretched. Gallus found the wine cups, saving them just as a servant had gone in to clear the table. He’d brought all three, two still brimming, the third half-empty.
The hapless servant, a slave whose job it was to deliver food and drink to whomever in the palace required it, was hauled before the shaved-headed man and beaten. From his sobbed confession, it was clear he’d had no idea the wine had been poisoned.
His story was that Tullius had told him guests awaited Nero in the long antechamber and they should be served wine at once. Tullius had inspected the glasses once they’d been on the tray, turning his back to the servant to sniff them. He’d wanted to make certain the guests had the best wine, not inferior stuff, Tullius had explained.
I believed the slave. Tullius would have given the command in his offhand way, and the servant would have had hurried to obey without question.
“Leave him,” I shouted at the shaved-headed man. “No one else should suffer for Tullius. You should for not noticing he was an assassin.”
The slave was released, and the shaved-headed man made himself scarce.
Cassia should not suffer for Tullius either, or for my slowness. Tullius had been too friendly, too ingratiating. I was used to men excited to meet a famous gladiator, and I’d taken his fawning as truth.
He’d had the height and build of the man who’d attacked me in the street and again in the bath. Avitus had been too spindly—Gallus, Celnus, or Kephalos too feeble. The middle-class man who toadied to Priscus also was too soft to be my attacker.
I’d also suspected the man who’d purchased Floriana’s lupinarius, but he was probably an elderly patrician who lived in a villa outside Rome and never bothered to look at his own properties in the city. I’d never thought of Tullius.
Cassia must have known—she’d been adamant about something when we’d left Priscus’s house tonight. Our meeting with Avitus had overshadowed it, and she’d assured me it would keep. If I’d made her tell me her thoughts …
I held her hand, which was too cold. If she died, what would happen to me?
Our benefactor would simply send me another slave, I knew. But never one like Cassia. She was too unique to be discarded and replaced like a broken amphora.
Marcianus arrived at last. I heard his hurried conversation with Gallus and then the medicus was beside me, his thin frame and large nose familiarly drab in this grandeur. Marcia had accompanied him, she almost completely shrouded in her plain brown cloak.
Marcianus sniffed the glasses, then dipped his finger into one and delicately tasted a drop of the wine inside.
“Subtle,” he said under his breath. “How long between the time she drank and the time she fell?”
I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know, in any case. The events had blurred, our haste through the city to the palace, our tedious wait for Nero to send for us, ending with my fury as I fought Tullius
. His blood still stained my tunic.
“The fourth hour of night had been called,” Gallus said. “But not the fifth.”
“She didn’t drink too much. That is good.” Marcianus’s thin hand landed on my shoulder. “I’ll do what I can, Leonidas.”
I understood that Marcianus expected me to leave while he doctored Cassia, but I refused. I remained stubbornly next to the bed, only stepping aside enough to let him work.
He purged Cassia, holding her over a basin in Marcia’s hands while Cassia heaved up all she had in her stomach. Marcianus laid her back down and poured a draught of something from one of his flasks into a cup. He tried to feed the draught to Cassia, but she had gone motionless, her lips slack.
Marcianus brought out a long metal tube, which he inserted into Cassia’s mouth, much farther than I thought possible, and decanted the liquid into it.
Cassia came to life then, gagging and trying to cough. Marcianus held the tube inside her for a few moments before he carefully slid it out. He supported Cassia upright while she coughed, but she mercifully soon subsided.
I didn’t like Marcianus’s worried look as he handed the apparatus to Marcia and lowered Cassia to the couch. “Is she dying?” I asked bluntly.
“No need for her to.” Marcianus was his usual optimistic self. “I’ve emptied her stomach and given her something to counteract the poison. Now we must wait.”
Cassia’s breathing was ragged. Soon her eyes closed and she sank into sleep, her chest barely rising.
The night drifted past, moon setting into blackness. Cassia was so very still that I had to lean to her to feel her breath on my cheek. Marcia bathed her face with scented water and straightened the covers, which were the finest linen.
I barely noticed who came and went in the room besides Marcianus and Marcia. Where Nero had gone, I didn’t know, nor did I know what they’d done with Tullius’s body. Gallus remained, obviously still not braving the streets to go home, and hovered worriedly at the edge of my vision.
The lamps sputtered out and were relit by silent servants. They were flickering still when the stars outside the high window faded, and dawn touched the sky.
Blood of a Gladiator Page 21
