Author: L. A. Witt
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Format(s): eBook, Paperback
Excerpt:
So this is Pompeii. The
prosperous city at the base of Vesuvius.
I’ve heard the tales about
this place. Quiet. Warm. Near the sea. Until recently, with the rudis of
freedom so close I could almost feel its wooden hilt in my hands, I had
considered coming here to make my home once I was no longer a slave. That is
until Fortune decided I should remain in bondage. I’d had perhaps three fights
left, but now I, along with two other men from my familia gladiatori, are on
our way to the Pompeiian politician who’s now our master.
In spite of the fact that
I’d lost my chance at freedom, the rest of the men in the familia had been
envious.
“A nobleman? In Pompeii?”
One had slapped my arm. “You lucky bastard!”
“Agreed,” another had
said. “You won’t be in the arena anymore, and if you’ve got to stay a slave,
Saevius, you could do worse than to live out your days as some rich bastard’s
bodyguard.”
A third had added,
“Pompeii? I hear in that place, the wine they pour in noblemen’s houses tastes
like the lips of Venus herself.”
The other men traveling
with me had been thrilled by that notion. Me, I’m as enthusiastic about any
woman’s lips, including Venus’s, as I am about spending the rest of my days a
fucking slave, so I’d simply muttered, “I’ll be sure to give my regards to
Bacchus.”
What servant drinks the
same wine as his masters, I can hardly imagine. But never mind, because the
wine here is probably no different from what flows in Rome. After all, Pompeii
doesn’t seem much different from Rome, if you ask me. A great deal smaller,
yes, and much less crowded. At least in this part of the city, though, it’s all
the same terracotta roofs and limestone walls and, as we near the market,
people dragging unruly livestock down stone streets past lumbering carts and
clouds of buzzing flies. Smells like bread, sweat, fish, and dung, just like
Rome, with chickens talking over the shouting bakers, fishmongers, butchers,
and vintners while hammering and banging come from workshops behind shop fronts
and booths. Perhaps I should have considered retiring to Herculaneum instead.
Then again, if Pompeii isn’t in life what it is in stories, then Herculaneum
likely isn’t the luxurious place it’s said to be either.
Not that I have a choice
now. Pompeii is my home until I’m sold or I die. Or my new master sees fit to
free me when I’m no longer of use to him.
Ectur, the monolith of a
Parthian tasked with bringing the three of us down from Rome, leads us deeper
into Pompeii’s stinking, bustling market. With every exhausted step, our chains
rattle over the city’s noise. Though the streets are crowded, people move aside
to let us pass. Some give us wary looks, standing between us and their wives
and children. Even those struggling to move carts down these difficult roads
stay out of our way. They’re especially wary of Ectur. We certainly look the
part of gladiators—scarred, tanned brutes, all of us—and since Ectur’s
unchained, people probably think he’s our lanista. No citizen with any sense
wants near a lanista.
The market must be close
to the Forum. All over the place, noblemen strut like cocks and sneer at slaves
and citizens, just like every one I ever saw in Rome, as though the gods
themselves should fear them. Would’ve liked to have met one of them in the
arena during my fighting days; he’d have wept to the gods for mercy, and that
pristine white toga would have been stained in shit before I’d fully raised my
sword.
But, gods willing, my days
in the arena are behind me forever.
Just beyond the market,
where the streets fan out toward clusters of high-walled villas, Ectur
approaches a squat, balding man in a tunic that’s far too clean to belong to a
common laborer. The man’s attention is buried in a beeswax tablet resting on
his arm, and he’s muttering to himself as he scratches something into it with a
stylus.
He glances up at us, and I
realize he only has one eye. Dropping his attention back to the tablet, he
grumbles, “Thought you’d leave me waiting all bloody day.”
“Longer journey from Rome
than it is from your master’s house,” Ectur mutters.
Without looking up, the
one-eyed man says, “I’ll need to look at them before you leave. The Master
Laurea will be unhappy if they are not up to his standards.”
Ectur stands straighter,
narrowing his eyes. “Caius Blasius doesn’t deal in faulty goods.”
“Then he’ll not mind if I
inspect his goods to be sure.” The one-eyed man gestures at us with his stylus.
“Whereas I have a beating waiting if I bring to my master slaves who are not to
his liking. So he’ll—” He stops abruptly, his eye widening. “Where is the
fourth? Master Laurea specifically selected four men, not three.”
“The fourth fell ill.
Terrible fever, and the medicus can’t say if he’ll live.” Ectur pulls a scroll
from his belt and hands it to the one-eyed man. “Caius Blasius gives his word
your master will be compensated.”
Glancing back and forth
from the scroll to Ectur, the man sighs heavily. “The master will not be happy.
It was the fourth in particular who interested him.”
Ectur sniffs with
amusement. “That scrawny Phoenician is hardly worth the sestertii your master
paid for him. An entertaining gladiator, maybe, but he’s worthless outside the
arena.”
I can’t help a quiet
laugh. It’s true enough; the idiot Phoenician is only alive—assuming he still
is—because he’s less afraid of his opponents than he is of the punishment for
being a coward on the sands. A man bred to be a bodyguard, he is not.
“The master selected his
men for a reason,” the one-eyed man snaps at Ectur. He sighs and shakes his
head. “Never mind, then. If he isn’t here, he isn’t here. The other three had
best be in good condition.”
Ectur doesn’t respond. He
folds his arms across his chest, watching with a scowl as the man with the
stylus inspects us each in turn, tutting and muttering to himself in between
jabbing us with his finger and etching something into the tablet. He pokes at
scars and bruises, eyeing us when we flinch, and then checks our teeth and
eyes. Since I was a child, I’ve been through more of these inspections than I
can count, and still I have to force myself not to put both hands around his
throat and show him I’m as fit and strong as a gladiator—or bodyguard, in this
case—ought to be.
Finally, he grunts and
slams shut the leather cover on the wax tablet. “They’re all well.”
“Good,” says the Parthian.
“Give my regards to your master.”
“And yours.” The one-eyed
man gestures sharply at us. “Come with me.”
Without a word from any of
us, we follow the man. His legs are shorter than ours nearly by half, but he
walks quickly, his gait fast and angry, and with heavy chains on our ankles,
it’s a struggle to keep up with him. Ectur doesn’t come with us.
Soon, we will meet our new
master.
By name, Junius Calvus
Laurea isn’t unfamiliar to me. I’ve heard Caius Blasius mention him—usually
with a scowl—and he’s apparently bought gladiators from my former master
before. I don’t know his face, though, and I know nothing of the man whose life
I will be sworn to guard. Only that he isn’t a lanista and my existence no
longer includes the inside of an arena. Freedom may not be in my future, but
Fortune be praised a thousand times over anyway.
The one-eyed servant leads
us down a narrow road between the enormous villas lined up in ranks just inside
the wall along the northern edge of the city. In spite of our chains, my fellow
former gladiators and I exchange smiles. A villa instead of a ludus gladiatori?
Indeed, this will be a new life. The existence of a bodyguard isn’t safe per
se, but unless our master has an unusual number of enemies, we’ll protect him
with our presence more often than our fighting skills. We’ll more likely die
from boredom than a blade.
On our way out of Rome,
we’d passed through the shadow of the nearly completed Colosseum. As the
immense structure’s cool shade rested on my neck and shoulders, I’d whispered a
prayer of thanks, in spite of the chains on my wrists and ankles, for my good
fortune. Rumors abound about what’s planned for the Colosseum, and some say the
games there will be far greater and more brutal than all the Ludi we’d barely
survived at Circus Maximus. Another year or two, people say, and it will be
complete. Perhaps I’ll never earn my rudis and the freedom that accompanies it
now, but any gladiator should be grateful for the chance to serve a nobleman
rather than set foot in that place.
We stop in front of one of
the countless villas. There, two massive, heavily-armed guards push open the
tall gates, and we walk inside. Our one-eyed guide takes us through the
luxurious home to the garden in the back. Here, within the high walls covered
in trailing ivy and in the shade of a massive cypress tree, servants and
statues surround our new master.
As soon as I see him, I
recognize the Master Laurea. I’ve seen him at the ludus before, watching us
train and inspecting us the way his servant did today. I didn’t know at the
time he was the one called Calvus Laurea, but I never forgot that face. Carved
from cold stone, sharply angled, with intense blue eyes that always emphasize
the smirk or scowl on his lips.
He lounges across a couch,
cradling a polished cup in his hand as a servant fans away the day’s heat with
enormous feathers. A large bodyguard stands behind Calvus Laurea, as does a
black-eyed servant with a wine jug clutched to her chest.
The man who led us here
stops us with a sharp gesture, and all three of us go to our knees, heads
bowed.
The master gets up. His
sandals scuff on the stone ground. “Stand, all of you.” As one, we rise to
attention.
“I am Junius Cal—” His
brow furrows. He looks from one of us to the next. Narrowing his eyes, he turns
to the man who brought us. “There are three, Ataiun. Where is the fourth?”
The one-eyed servant bows
his head. “My apologies, Dominus. There were only three. The fourth was
stricken with fever and unable to travel.” He pulls out the scroll Ectur had
given him. “His master sends this promise of compensation.”
Master Laurea scowls.
“Very well. I suppose it will have to do.” He waves a hand at his servant. “See
that it’s accounted for.” To us, he says, “I am Junius Calvus Laurea, and I am
your new master.”
Once again, he looks at us
each in turn. I try not to notice how his gaze keeps lingering on me longer
than it does on the others, but his pauses are too conspicuous to ignore.
At last, he speaks:
“You’re the one called Saevius, yes?”
I square my shoulders. “I
am, Dominus.”
Without taking his eyes
off me, he says to his servant, “Show the others to their quarters.” He
gestures at me. “This one stays here.”
The men who accompanied me
bow their heads sharply, and a moment later, they are gone.
Master Laurea steps closer
to me, still looking me squarely in the eyes. “Welcome to Pompeii, Saevius,” he
says with a slight smile. “You may call me Calvus.”
His request for
familiarity sends ghostly spiders creeping up the length of my spine.
Without taking his eyes
off mine, he snaps his fingers. “Bring us wine. Both of us.”
The servant holding the
wine jug obeys immediately, and the spiders are more pronounced now, my breath
barely moving as the woman pours two cups of wine. She hands one to our master,
and then the other to me.
“Leave us,” Calvus says.
“All of you.”
Gods, be with me . . .
In moments, I am alone
with my new master, a cup of wine in my uncertain hand. Calvus brings his cup
to his lips, pausing to say, “Drink, Saevius. I insist.”
I do. I can’t say if it
tastes like the cunt of Venus, but it’s as sweet and rich as Pompeiian wines
are said to be, if slightly soured by the churning in the pit of my stomach.
“You won’t be my
bodyguard, Saevius,” Calvus says suddenly. “Not like the two who came with
you.”
I suddenly can’t taste the
wine on my tongue. With much effort, I swallow it. “Whatever you ask of me,
Dominus.”
“I have two tasks for you,
Saevius.” Something about the way he says my name, the way he keeps
saying my name, sends more spiders wandering up and down my back and beneath my
flesh. “One simple, one less so.”
I bow my head slightly. “I
am here to serve, Dominus.”
“Calvus,” he says. “Call
me Calvus.”
I slowly raise my head. “I
am here to serve . . . Calvus.”
He grins. “Much better.”
He’s playing a game here.
He has to be. What game it is, and what role I play, I can’t work out.
I take another drink of
tasteless wine. “What are my duties?”
“There is a ludus
gladiatori on the south side of the city.” The mention of a ludus twists something
in my chest. Calvus continues, “Your first task is to present a gift to the
lanista of that ludus. A gift of five hundred sestertii from Cassius, the city
magistrate.” My skin crawls as an odd smile curls the corners of my new
master’s mouth. “Cassius deeply regrets he could not present it himself,
but”—the smile intensifies—“I promised I would take care of it for him.”
In spite of Calvus’s
expression, relief cools my blood. Delivering monetary gifts instead of
fighting other gladiators for the entertainment of a roaring crowd? Even if it
means setting foot in a ludus again, I’ll be there only as a messenger, not a
fighter in training.
Gods, I thank you.
Again and again, I thank you.
“Let’s discuss your second
task.” He tilts his head just so, like he’s looking for answers to questions he
hasn’t yet asked. “Blasius spoke highly of you, Saevius. And your reputation
precedes you all the way from Rome.” He raises his cup. “A tremendous fighter,
but also a loyal servant.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
It’s a silence I’m certain I’m supposed to fill, but I don’t know how.
“Thank you, Dominus,” is
all I can think to say, and quickly correct it with, “Calvus. Thank you,
Calvus.”
He lowers his wine cup. A
different smile forms on his mouth, one that’s taut and unnerving. I’m less and
less comfortable as the silence between us lingers.
At last, he speaks, and
there’s something in his voice this time, an edge that prickles the back of my
neck. “After you’ve delivered the money to the lanista, you will remain at the ludus.”
His eyes narrow as one corner of his mouth lifts. “As an auctoratus.”
My heart beats faster.
“Dominus, with respect, an auctoratus? I am not a citizen. I’m not even a
freedman. How can I be an auctoratus if I am still—”
Calvus puts up a hand.
“You will remain my slave, of course, but until such time as I tell you
otherwise, you will live at the ludus. Train as a gladiator.” He inclines his
head and lowers his voice. “To everyone but us and the gods, and according to
the documents that will accompany you, you are a citizen voluntarily submitting
to be owned by the ludus and its lanista. Am I understood?”
No. No, what are you
asking me to do? And why?
But I nod anyway. “Yes,
Dominus.”
He moves now, walking
toward, then around me, circling me slowly as he continues speaking. “While you
train and fight, you will keep your eyes and ears open. Listen and watch the
men around you.”
I sweep my tongue across
my dry lips. Every familia gladiatori is already rife with dangerous rivalries.
To spy on my brothers within the ludus? Especially when I am the newest blood?
I should cut my own throat now and be done with it.
“As an auctoratus,” he
says, still walking around me, “you will be able to leave the ludus of your own
free will, so long as you return and you don’t leave the city. When I wish to
speak to you, I will contact you. Understood?”
“I . . . yes,” I say.
“What am I looking for, Dominus? Er, Calvus?”
“You’re a gladiator,
Saevius,” he says. “Surely you know how women feel about men like you?”
I nod again. Women were no
strangers to the ludus where I trained before. Many of them married, plenty of
them noble; my lanista took their money, the women cavorted with gladiators,
and the husbands were never the wiser.
“A man of my stature
cannot afford the embarrassment of a wife’s . . .” He pauses in both speech and
step, wrinkling his nose. “Of a wife’s unsavory indiscretions.
Especially with creatures so far below my station.” Calvus resumes his slow,
unsettling walk around me. “And when word begins to spread of a woman doing
these things, a husband, particularly a husband of my political and social
stature, has little choice but to put a stop to it.” He steps into my sight and
halts, looking me in the eye. “Which is where you come in, Saevius.”
Oh, dear sweet gods,
help me . . .
“You will listen, and you
will watch.” Calvus comes closer, eyes narrowing. “Learn the name of the man
who keeps drawing my lady Verina into his bed. Am I clear, gladiator?”
In all my years in the
arena, my heart has never pounded this hard. What woman doesn’t have
slaves as lovers? Gladiators fuck married women as often as we fight amongst
ourselves.
Unless Calvus thinks his
wife isn’t involved with a slave. One of the freedmen working as trainers?
Perhaps the lanista himself? Or one of the munerators renting fighters for some
upcoming games? No citizen, especially not a public figure such as Calvus,
tolerates that kind of insult from his wife, and for some, divorce isn’t nearly
punishment enough.
Regardless of Calvus’s
reasoning or what he plans to do once he knows the name of his wife’s lover, is
there any place more dangerous for a man than the middle of games played
between a wife and the husband she’s scorned?
“Am I clear,
gladiator?”
I swallow hard. “Yes,
Calvus.”
“Good.” He steps away and
lifts his wine again. “I will have your papers drawn up tonight. Tomorrow
morning, you will be taken to the ludus owned by the lanista Drusus.”
Drusus. Gods, any lanista
but him. I silently beg the ground to open up beneath me. Drusus’s reputation
extends beyond any reach Master Calvus could dream of his own doing. No
gladiator who’s heard the stories about Drusus would ever volunteer to fight
for him.
Calvus looks me up and
down, his brow furrowing as he inspects my arms, one then the other. “These
scars are . . .” He meets my eyes. “You’re left-handed, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
He grins. “Excellent. I’m
sure Drusus will be doubly pleased with you.” The grin widens. “Perhaps I
should have chosen you in the first place over that Phoenician. After all, a
left-handed fighter like you belongs in the arena where he can make his
lanista rich, yes?”
I resist the urge to avoid
his eyes.
“You’ll be his left-handed
moneymaker, and you’ll—” Calvus gives a quiet, bone-chilling laugh. “Well, I
suppose in a way you’ll be my left hand, won’t you?”
“I suppose I will,
Dominus,” I whisper.
Calvus puts his hand on my
shoulder. The amusement leaves his expression. “Listen closely, gladiator. This
is very important. The money you’re giving Drusus, the five hundred sestertii,
is from the magistrate called Cassius. The same one who will be providing your
auctoratus documents. Is that clear?”
My mouth goes dry as I
nod.
“You will not
mention me or our arrangement,” he says. “Not to anyone within the ludus
under any circumstances. Understood?”
“Yes, Dominus.” I
hesitate. “Calvus.”
“Be warned, Saevius. I do
not tolerate treachery or dishonesty.” He leans in, lowering his voice so I’m
certain no one but me and the gods can hear him, and he presses down hard on my
shoulder. “Give me a single reason to believe you’re not doing precisely as
I’ve ordered, or that you’ve breathed my name within the walls of the ludus, and
I will see to it the magistrate asks Drusus if he received the full seven
hundred sestertii. Am I understood?”
With much effort, I
swallow. With even more, I nod. “Yes, Calvus.”
And silently, I beg the
gods to send me back to Rome to fight in its Colosseum.
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