Sword of the Gladiatrix

by Faith L Justice

  Cinnia ground her teeth. How could I have been so stupid?

  Two more soldiers entered the clearing, grabbed her arms; took her knife and sword. One brushed his hand against her breast as he searched her and started.

  “This’s a girl!”

  “Fun tonight, boys!” The spear-wielding soldier’s grin grew broader. “Tie her up.”

  Cold settled in Cinnia’s stomach; horror paralyzed her limbs. She stumbled through the woods toward the road wishing the druid had given her a vial of the deadly poison he had provided Boudica.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AFRA WATCHED THE PHAROS GROW SMALLER in the distance, its fiery eye visible long after the white walls of Alexandria had disappeared. Her eyes unexpectedly prickled with tears. Would she ever return to Africa? Did she want to? She clutched her amulet. The priest in Meroe had told her to honor the gods wherever she went, but the small figure of Isis gave Afra no comfort as the coast slipped away. Maybe she should have asked for the Roman sea god’s favor, as the crew and other passengers did before leaving the harbor.

  She surveyed their meager possessions piled on the deck: Clio’s snake basket, her own pack, three bed rolls, a small cage for the cubs, and a basket of fresh fruit and herbs to supplement the ship’s fare. Clio’s wooden box, Marcius’ much more substantial pack, and the other passengers’ kits were stowed below deck with the cargo—amphorae of oil, wine, and fish sauce—along with fourteen days’ supplies of food and water. Afra hoped the voyage wouldn’t take more than the usual seven days. She had a limited supply of dried meat and cheese for the cubs. They were a little young to wean, but she had little choice. If necessary she would chew their food for them.

  Three other passengers voyaged with them. She spotted Marcius chatting with a well-dressed man in a peaked cap, who looked annoyed at being cornered. Clio clung to the rail, retching, along with two others who were poor sailors.

  Afra picked among the basket of herbs, found a sprig of mint and crushed a few leaves into a cup of water.

  “Try this.” Afra held the aromatic cup out to Clio.

  “You insolent slut!” Clio turned her green-tinged face toward her. “Call me ‘Domina’ and don’t talk to me unless I ask.”

  “Yes, Domina.” Afra sketched a bow and retreated to sip the water herself. She felt mildly unsettled, but the mint-flavored water helped. She surveyed the ship. A medium-sized merchant vessel, with a crew of four, its deck accommodated ten people in a space Afra could cover in twenty strides from bow to stern and five from side to side. No way to get away from Clio and her tempers. It was going to be a long voyage.

  A school of large sleek fish leaped out of the water on either side of the ship, slipping gracefully in and out of the water. One stood on its tail and chittered at Afra; its eyes gleamed with intelligence, and mouth curved in a smile.

  She heard Marcius come up behind her. “You should see your face, Afra. You look like a small child who has seen her first shooting star.”

  Entranced, she reached over the rail as if to touch one. “What are these creatures?”

  “Dolphins. The Greeks say that a ship of sailors tried to seize the god Dionysus who traveled in disguise and sell him as a slave. He turned the oars and ropes to snakes and the men jumped over the side to escape. Poseidon turned them into dolphins, forever fated to lead ships to safe harbor.”

  Afra raised an eyebrow. “Not a bad fate for such evil doers.”

  “Sailors who go beyond the Pillars of Hercules talk of dolphins bigger than a ship, all colors and markings.” Marcius shaded his eyes. “They’re moving off.”

  “What other strange creatures do you know of?”

  “Bears, wolves, great horned elk.” He put his hand up to forestall her questions. “You’ll see them all and more in Rome.”

  She grinned for the first time in weeks. “Maybe I’ll like this city after all.”

  ***

  “PORTUS, HO!”

  The sailor’s shout roused Afra from a nap. They had been skirting the coast of Italia for a couple of days, heading for Rome’s main sea port. A hint of green earth smell tainted the briny sea breeze. She rose, shaded her eyes, and looked off the bow. A massive lighthouse rose from the horizon, thrusting its slender tower into the sky.

  “Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Marcius came up behind her, holding hard to one of the ropes running to the mast. “Claudius built it taller than the one at Alexandria. Similar plan, but bigger. See the figure on top?”

  Afra nodded.

  “On the Pharos it’s the sea god Poseidon. Here, it’s the Divine Claudius. He built the Portus harbor too. Ostia—you’ll see it on the right as we pass—is a river port. As Rome grew, it needed more goods. Ostia can only take shallow bottom boats.” He looked around at the sailors taking their positions. “We should get our gear together.”

  Afra helped tie up their few bundles with plenty of time to spare to watch the crew. Two sailors manned the lines which ran through an ingenious series of horn rings sewed in vertical rows on the front of the great square sail. Two men could easily pull the sail up or lower it as the captain and a fourth sailor managed the tillers on both sides of the stern of the ship.

  As they got closer, she saw a white gleaming stoa running the length of a mole reaching into the sea. It terminated in a temple, so the ship broaching the gap between the sea wall and the lighthouse island sailed between gods. The other passengers made small sacrifices at the portable alter in the stern as they sailed through, furled the sail, and came to a stop, gently rocking in the artificial harbor. Within minutes, a small boat, powered by a row of oars and carrying an officious-looking little man, pulled up to the side. The captain lowered a rope ladder and hauled the man aboard.

  Marcius sighed, grumbling. “Damn, tax men. Can’t a citizen go anywhere without paying?”

  After the captain showed his papers, the tax official inspected the cargo, made notes on a wax tablet, and took a turn around the deck, poking at the various bundles. When he came to the cheetah’s cage, he pushed the cover off and stepped back. “Who owns these?”

  Afra heard the cubs’ chirping cries and started to step forward. Marcius, put his arm in front of her. “They’re mine.”

  “And you are?” The tax man looked up at Marcius.

  “Lucius Marcius, citizen of Rome. These are my cats.”

  “Do you have a license? The Emperor carefully regulates animal importers.”

  Afra clenched her fists in frustration. She could do nothing if Marcius gave up the cubs. They were hers only in her heart. He glanced at her pleading face. Over the tax man’s shoulder she saw Clio pick up her snake basket and disappear down the hatch. Afra wasn’t the only one who might lose her pet.

  “These aren’t for the games. Special order for Senator Cotta”

  The tax man snorted in derision. “Papers?”

  Marcius handed over his papers. Afra saw a glint of silver drop into the tax man’s hand. He quickly glanced through the papers. “Everything seems to be in order.”

  Afra released a long slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  Eventually the tax man left. Clio emerged from the hold with an empty basket, wearing a voluminous mantle. Sweat speckled her brow. She swayed up to Marcius, gave Afra a venomous glare, and hissed, “How much did that cost us?”

  “Nothing compared to what I’ll get when they’re grown and trained, my love.”

  She sniffed. “If I hear that excuse one more time, I’ll feed them to Astarte myself.” At the sound of the snake’s name, her robe shifted and undulated. Clio put a gentling hand on her waist and murmured a few soothing sounds.

  When they finally tottered down the swaying ramp of the ship to a stone quay, each carried a substantial burden. A clutch of men stood along the quayside shouting their services. Marcius chose a likely looking fellow and handed him Clio’s wooden box and a couple of their packs. Afra carried the cage, her own kit, and a precious leather cylinder enclosing a Kushite b
ow and arrows Marcius had bought for her in Alexandria. They followed the man under the marble stoa, past the lines of slaves off-loading the dozens of merchant ships, toward a large building on a canal.

  After the magnificence of Alexandria, the Portus harbor seemed new and raw. Construction crews worked on several buildings close to the harbor. Piles of timber, brick and marble facing hulked nearby. Warehouses? More men carrying wax tablets or leather pouches stuffed with papers came and went from a central administration building. Travelers—coming and going—made offerings at another temple shrine. Afra murmured as they passed, “Praise to Mother Isis for delivering us safely from the sea. I’ll make an offering when I can.”

  To Afra’s relief, they stopped under a stoa by the side of a busy road. Marcius and the porter went in search of a hired wagon to haul their possessions to Rome. Clio sat on her wooden chest, back against the cool stone, and fanned herself. Afra took advantage of the break to take the cubs out of their cage for little air. At two months, they fit in her lap, but would soon outgrow it. The cage was already cramped. Afra smoothed the fuzzy spotted fur while the cubs purred and butted her leg. They would lose their baby coats soon and look more like adult cheetahs. They already had their spots and the distinctive black stripe from the inside of their eyes to the outside of their mouths.

  “Have you named them?”

  Afra looked up, startled. Clio had paid no attention to the cats on the voyage. With little to do, Afra had spent most of her time feeding and working with the cubs, training them to the leash and to respond to simple commands.

  “This one’s Mari. That’s Cari.”

  “How do you tell them apart?”

  “Mari has the bold spirit of the hunter. Cari is shy, but cunning.”

  Clio raised an eyebrow. “I thought it had more to do with their spots.”

  Afra graced her with one of her rare smiles. White even teeth flashed, rearranging the planes and angles of her face into a mask of exotic beauty.

  “Mari has two rows of three small spots here.” Afra pointed at the cat’s left cheek. “Cari has a white spot on the tip of her tail.”

  “When will they be fully trained and ready to sell?”

  Afra clutched Mari a little too hard, and the cub gave a soft chirping sound of distress. She loosened her grip. “A year at the earliest. Best if I train them until they are fully grown. About two.”

  “That’s a long time.” Clio frowned. “How will you feed them? We can’t afford meat for ourselves, much less wild animals.”

  Afra had worried over that question herself, until she knifed a rat trying to steal their food on the boat. She pointed to a bold rodent scurrying across the road heading for the grain warehouses. “Wherever there are people, there are mice and rats. I will trap them until the cubs can hunt on their own.”

  “Good.” Clio nodded. “Get an extra one or two for Astarte, next time you trap. Live hares are expensive.”

  ***

  CLIO SNIFFED AND LOOKED down her long nose at the dingy room they shared with several other travelers at the Rearing Horse Inn.

  “It’s just until I get my contract, love. Then we’ll move. I’ll find you a fine home.” Marcius’ voice trailed off under Clio’s withering stare. “Afra, you and the cats will stay in the stable. This way.”

  Her heart lightened. The prospect of sharing space with horses and mules seemed much more pleasant than Clio’s company.

  ***

  “YOU’LL DO.” The next day, Marcius looked Afra over with a critical eye. She wore his spare tunic—a pale yellow with embroidered roundels at the shoulders. Because of her height, it came to just above her knees. She was used to wearing men’s clothes, but for some reason, this time she felt exposed. Maybe it wasn’t the clothes but the new place. She knew nothing of Rome except some fantastical stories Marcius shared with her.

  “Here’s your bow. We’re going to meet with the procurator munerum, the emperor’s agent. He may want a demonstration of your abilities.”

  Afra carefully unwrapped her bow which stood nearly as tall as she. She ran her hand along the polished wood and inspected the sinew string for weaknesses. She had been more than pleased when Marcius bought it for her in Alexandria. He had been reluctant to part with the coin until she pointed out that her skill was with the Kushite bow not the inferior Roman ones. It took months to layer the wood, sinew, and horn that made the bow supple and strong and gave her better accuracy. If he wanted her to show her skills, she needed good tools, and Kushite bows were considerably cheaper in Alexandria than they were in Rome.

  Their inn was inside the city boundary off a side street intersecting with the Appian Way. Rome was a much different city than Alexandria—bigger in every way—dirtier, noisier, more people. Whereas Alexandria was laid out on a grid system, Rome seemed to sprawl in all directions. Lavish villas crowned the hills, while the lower lying areas were crowded with insulae, apartment buildings that towered as much as five stories. The narrow streets twisted and turned, stinking of human waste and dead animals.

  “Are the Romans as crooked as their streets?”

  “Pretty much.” Marcius laughed. “See that gang of toughs heading into the wine shop? They’re probably the collegia paid by the local merchants to maintain the local shrine to the lares.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “The lares—the minor spirits that protect crossroads and springs,” he hastily explained.

  “You mean that?” She pointed to a fascinum, a fired clay representation of a winged penis that seemed to be over every doorway.

  Marcius laughed until tears came from his eyes. “No. Those are for good luck.”

  “Those men don’t look like priests.”

  “They’re not.” Marcius wiped the tears from his cheeks. “The merchants pay the collegia, not only to maintain the shrines, but to protect their businesses.”

  “Protect from whom?”

  “The collegia.”

  “Ahhh.” She nodded.

  “It’s the Roman way. Everyone gets his cut.”

  They exited the twisted streets onto a broad boulevard which ended in a wide space packed with people smelling of sweat and strange spices. Basilicas and temples clustered around the various fora at odd angles and levels. Marcius traveled the twisted streets with practiced ease.

  He pointed. “That’s the Forum Romanum and the rostra where Senators speak to the people. They rarely have anything to say, but it’s free entertainment.” On a platform, a man in a purple-bordered white toga harangued the people. Some listened; some shouted back, others drifted away.

  “Why have Senators if you have an Emperor?”

  “I’m not sure myself. They used to be important during the Republic.” Marcius lowered his voice and looked around to see if anyone seemed unduly interested in their conversation. “Every so often, the Emperor kills a bunch and takes their property. The next thing you know, there’s a bunch of rich lack wits trying to take their places. It doesn’t pay to be too rich in Rome, especially when the Emperor has a war to finance or a building project.

  “Enough of politics. It makes my head hurt.” He pointed to the right, “The procurator’s office is over there, next to the amphitheater where the gladiators fight.”

  They approached an immense wall that curved away to the right. It looked like stone, but Afra soon realized it was wood, painted to look like stone with arches, pillars, and statues in niches. Clever to trick the eye. They approached a smaller wooden structure, with an equally ornate door guarded by a hulking man. He was taller than Afra and twice as wide, muscles rippling in his arms and legs, but going to fat around his middle.

  “Ex-gladiator,” Marcius mumbled and tried to pass.

  The mountainous man stepped in their way. “Your business?”

  “Is with the procurator.”

  “Do you have a letter of recommendation?”

  “No.” Marcius’ jaw jutted forward. “I have a venatore from Ethiopia.” He waved a
hand at Afra.

  The ex-gladiator slowly swept her with his gaze. “End of the line,” he grunted, and let them pass.

  They entered a dim, cavernous room lined with benches, most of which were filled with a motley crew of tough-looking men. Marcius stopped inside to let his eyes adjust. “Over there.” He pointed to a rabbity man, sitting at a table outside a door and scribbling on a wax tablet.

  “Lucius Marcius to see the procurator,” he announced to the clerk.

  “You and all these others.” The clerk indicated the filled benches.

  “Ah, but the procurator is a particular friend of mine and will be most interested in seeing me.” Silver flashed as Marcius passed a coin to the clerk under the table. It disappeared so fast, Afra wondered if she really saw anything. She was beginning to wonder where Marcius got enough money for all his bribes. He always seemed to have an extra coin or two.

  “Take a seat.” The clerk nodded his head. “You’re next.”

  “The Roman way?” Afra settled on a hard bench.

  “Everyone gets his cut.” Marcius sat and patted the pouch tucked in the fold of his belted tunic. “I hope there aren’t too many cuts between me and the procurator, or I’ll have to make another trip to the money lender and Clio wouldn’t like me pawning the pretty new jewels I got her.”

  Uneasiness prickled Afra’s skin. “What does the moneylender hold for that?” She nodded toward his pouch.

  Blood crept up his neck to suffuse his face. Marcius looked away.

  “Me?” She gritted between her teeth.

  “Only if I can’t pay by the end of each month.”

  “I owe you a life debt of service, not those others!”

  “This is Rome, Afra.” Marcius’ low voice took a harder edge. “I own you. It’s legal. I can do with you as I wish.”

  “Truly?” She crossed her arms and stared down her nose at the shorter Roman. “I can always choose escape or death.”