Greta Gilbert Read online

  From across the room, the great Emperor Titus rose from his throne and raised his glass. “For the glory of Rome.” All the guests raised their goblets. “For the glory of Rome!”

  The guards took Artair by the arms and immediately led him away.

  * * *

  When she finally slept that night, Clodia’s dreams were full of demons. She saw Artair alone in a dark prison cell, snarling lions awaiting him just outside the bars. She was running toward him, but people filled the halls, preventing her from going anywhere. Soon she could no longer move. The people around her pushed inward, slowly suffocating her.

  She awoke gasping. It was still dark, yet she could hear the cooing of pigeons outside her window. The soft scuttling of their feet like the sounds of the Fates spinning their threads.

  She pulled her leather dowry from beneath her bed linens, and stuffed all her jewelry inside. Then she tied the large pouch tightly around her naked hips, pulled on her stola and arranged her palla shawl in such a way that the bulge was concealed. She took another small coin purse and stuffed it under her waist belt for easy access. Finally, she pulled a small puglio blade from beneath her mattress and strapped it to her lower leg.

  Chapter Ten

  He was marched with three other men from the courtyard of the ludus into the bowels of the great structure. How many have given their lives to create such a place? he wondered.

  It was just after daybreak, yet Artair could make out little in the inky darkness. Their guide had to light a torch to find his way through the labyrinth of catacombs beneath the immense amphitheater.

  This time, Artair did not try to remember their path. He knew now that there was no escape—he would meet his end to the roar of a mob. He could only hope that Clodia had the strength to follow her plan without him, and he prayed to his old gods that when the lions were released on him, she would be spared the sight of their efforts.

  He and three other men were pushed into a single cell and left to wait. He could already hear the noisy crowd assembling in the arena above.

  Hours passed. The midday bell rang out, followed by the wild cheers of the executions. Artair tried to rest, but he could not stop thinking of Clodia’s escape. If the bridge was guarded, she would certainly be detained. A Roman noblewoman walking unaccompanied across the Aemilius bridge was certain to invite interrogation from a guard.

  She would need to find some other way across the river. If she could hire a boatman on such a day as this, fortune would indeed be in her favor. If she could not, she would have to find another way out. But how?

  The roar of the crowd thundered through his head, and he glanced at one of his companions. The man was trembling, and a trickle of his own water made its way down his leg. Moments later, two guards arrived and ushered the four men out of the cell.

  The guards provided no weapons, nor did they offer any advice. They pushed the men into a barred archway that opened to the arena. Then they stood side by side, keeping their hands ready on the butts of their swords to discourage any thoughts of escape.

  Beyond the bars, the arena spread before Artair—a sea of sand surrounded by a giant concrete edifice that held layer upon layer of people, ascending to impossible heights.

  At the far end of the structure, Artair noticed the promontory of the emperor’s seating area, and could even make out the figure of the emperor himself. Just below was a longer platform that appeared to contain senators and their families. Artair strained to see if he could make out Clodia’s shape. Then he felt the blow of a boot against his back.

  The gate lifted and Artair stumbled forward onto the sand. Dust flew into his eyes, and as he regained his bearing he found himself turned around, his back to the crowd. He was staring through the now-closed gate into the eyes of a guard.

  “I who am about to die,” Artair said, bowing low, “salute you!” At the lowest part of his bow, he reached through the bars and unsheathed the man’s gladius.

  Thrusting the stolen sword high in the air, Artair ran to join the other men in the center of the arena. The crowd roared.

  Artair could barely think for the noise. He scanned the senators’ seats, trying to make out Clodia’s profile. And then there she was, just to the right of the emperor’s box. Dark black hair high in a plaited bun. He could almost see the rise and fall of her chest.

  You will not die. You will not leave her alone.

  Then the lions materialized. Four males. They emerged from under the sand. The beasts had clearly been starved, and they began circling the men hungrily.

  Artair tried not to panic. If the lions were like the wolves that roamed Britannia, then they acted together, as a single beast. And if that were true, then if he could kill one, the others would cease their attack. He stepped forward, walking boldly toward the leader, who barred his long fangs and answered Artair’s approach with a mighty roar.

  The crowd erupted in emotion. Artair gripped his blade tightly and waited. The beast sprang from the ground and, as if guided by Zeus himself, headed straight for Artair. He jumped in the air, his claws facing forward, and pushed Artair to the ground.

  Artair lay in the sand, his breath gone, his chest throbbing with a searing pain. Yet, somehow, he still held the blade. The lion approached, his wide mouth revealing fangs the size of fingers. Artair waited until the beast hovered just above his neck. Then he struck. He plunged his knife upward, through the animal’s neck.

  The lion stumbled backward. Artair stood, pulled his knife from the animal’s neck and plunged it down from above, ending his pain. The lion collapsed, his breath quickly leaving him. Artair kneeled beside him and said a quiet prayer. “Go to a better place now, mighty one,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

  When Artair stood, the crowd was on its feet. “Do-mi-nus be-sti-as! Do-mi-nus be-sti-as!” they shouted. Beast master! Beast master! Artair noticed the bleeding tracks of the lion’s paws on his chest. The other three lions had scattered to the sides of the arena and were pacing anxiously. The other three men embraced Artair in gratitude.

  Emperor Titus stood to address the crowd. “The slave has shown that he is better than a lion,” the emperor pronounced. “Now let us see if he is better than a gladiator!” The crowd was on its feet again, this time chanting, “Gla-di-a-tor! Gla-di-a-tor!”

  The emperor returned to his seat. Guards ushered Artair’s companions from the field and a man with a whip corralled the lions to an exit. Then Artair was alone on the field, the carcass of the dead lion at his side, his sword dripping blood.

  The gate below the emperor’s seating area lifted, and a heavily armored man walked through it. The crowd reverberated with awe. The man did not hurry. He approached Artair with the deliberate stride of a trained killer, his dual blades whipping through the air.

  Show no fear, Artair thought, as with the lions. He glanced up at Clodia, who appeared to nod subtly. Fueled by hope, Artair ran forward to meet the gladiator at the far end of the arena, just below where Clodia sat.

  Their swords clashed, and Artair felt the immense power of the man behind the armor. He tried to remember his training, his father’s words so long ago: “A man heavy with armor is a man heavy with fear.” Artair slashed at the gladiator’s lower legs—the only unprotected part of the man. But the effort was in vain. He countered each of Artair blows with a fiercer one, and after many thrusts, Artair could feel himself weakening.

  The gladiator advanced and Artair stumbled backward. Blood continued to flow from Artair’s chest wounds. Clodia’s words echoed through his head. He used us. Used all of us. We were just stones he tread on his way to power!

  Then Artair had an idea.

  He lunged forward, pushing and battling the gladiator toward the center of the arena, where the lion’s carcass lay.

  Just as the gladiator’s heels backed into the pool of blood that had collected near the lion’s carcass, Artair let go a battle cry, and with all the power left in him, sent the man stumbling backward over the lion. The man’s
helmet rolled off his head, and one of his swords fell from his hand. Artair kicked the other sword away and held his own sword to the man’s throat. Then, as he had heard was the custom, he looked toward the emperor.

  Emperor Titus stood. The crowd thundered. Amidst the cacophony of cries, a chant emerged. “Gla-di-a-tor! Gla-di-a-tor!” Titus lifted his arms to quiet the crowd. Soon, the amphitheater was silent, the crowd awaiting their emperor’s decision.

  Titus lifted his thumb toward the sky, Artair threw his sword to the ground, and pulled the man to his feet. As they raised each other’s arms in victory, Artair searched the stands for Clodia.

  But she was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clodia tried to stay her trembling as she made her way through the catacombs toward the gladiators’ cells. Just moments before, she was descending the stairs with two of Silanus’s bodyguards. “I am unwell,” she had explained, feigning nausea.

  She had lost them in the first-floor corridor, slipping into a crowd of young men who were inspired by a few denarii to keep her cover. A few more denarii had motivated a guard to point her in the direction of the gladiator barracks, though she was not nearly as certain of his discretion. She needed to find Artair soon.

  “Artair!” she called as she reached the catacombs, her voice betraying her desperation.

  “Clodia?” the response came from down a long dark corridor, barely lit by a sputtering torch. “Clodia!”

  Clodia leapt into a run, passing a line of cells. A blood-encrusted hand emerged from behind the bars of a cell. And then she was looking into his eyes, feeling as if her heart might burst.

  “We have little time,” she said, her hands gripping the bars.

  “But I am trapped. You must go without me.”

  “Never.”

  A man appeared in the entrance to the hall. “Woman, you cannot be here,” he shouted. He began to walk toward her.

  Clodia summoned her most commanding voice. “You are entrusted with these cells?”

  “I am,” said the man, hesitating. “And women are not allowed here. You must leave—”

  “Sir, I am no ordinary woman,” said Clodia. “I have been dispatched by Senator Lucius Bruttius Silanus. He wishes me to negotiate the purchase of this man to be my slave. Know you Silanus?” The guard nodded. Clodia noticed the master key on a rope around his belt. “Well, I am his betrothed.”

  “Senator Silanus would not send his betrothed to negotiate business.” He stepped closer.

  “Intelligent man,” Clodia said. “There is, shall we say, a need for discretion in this matter. You see, my dear Silanus has a rival. A man who would purchase this gladiator for himself, to spite Silanus.”

  Clodia opened the mouth of her coin purse at her waist. The man’s eyes widened as he beheld the swollen bag. “So I am here to usher this man away discreetly, before my husband’s rival can do the same.”

  “Why should I not wait for this ‘rival’? This man has defeated a gladiator. He is worth a great sum.”

  “Indeed,” said Clodia. “But my husband’s rival will kill you for this man. Whereas I, a defenseless woman, would only offer this.” Clodia held out the purse and dangled it before the guard, just shy of his reach.

  It was a dangerous game she was playing. With a single punch, the man could have Clodia on the ground and the purse all his own. She could read the very thought of it behind his eyes. Slowly, keeping the purse out of reach, she pulled her puglio from under her skirts. Now she held the purse in one hand, and the puglio in the other.

  “You see? No ordinary woman,” Clodia said, turning the blade in her hand. The man hesitated. “Now, do we have a deal?” she said.

  “We do.”

  “Then unlock him, and I will give you the purse.”

  “Give me the purse, then I will unlock him.”

  The man advanced. He was close enough to overcome her. “Wait!” said Clodia, tightening her grip on the blade. “Do not test me, guard. I will stick you like a pig on Saturnalia. Now give me the key whilst I give you the purse.”

  Nodding warily, the man untied the key from his waste. When she felt the cool metal in the palm of her hand, she yanked the coin purse back and threw it behind her. Its contents spilled across the dirt floor.

  “There are your riches,” she said. “Now go get them!” The man lunged past her, deeper into the hall. Quickly, Clodia maneuvered the key in the hole and was soon enveloped in Artair’s embrace.

  “We must fly,” said Clodia.

  “Wait,” said Artair. “We must be better than those who would enslave us.” The familiar words echoed through Clodia’s mind, and she felt a rush of love fill her chest.

  One by one, they unlocked the cell doors. The once-doomed men emerged and together the group stormed through the catacombs and up to the entrance. Soon they were all standing outside the amphitheater, squinting in the bright sunlight.

  “We are free,” said one man, gasping in disbelief.

  Then the mounted soldiers appeared. Three of them. Galloping toward the group of fugitives like cavalry.

  “Run!” cried one of the men, and the group scattered throughout the crowd. One of the soldiers bore down upon Clodia and Artair, his long sword extending down from his mount.

  “The gods smile upon us yet,” Artair whispered to Clodia. “Hand me your puglio.” Artair threw up his hands in mock surrender to the soldier, Clodia’s blade hidden in the palm of his hand. When the soldier was close enough, Artair cut the reins from the man’s hands, pulled him from his mount, and in a single movement pulled Clodia and himself upon the horse.

  “Hold me tightly,” he instructed, and the horse reared up on both legs and surged across the piazza.

  Clodia kept her arms fixed around Artair’s body. He drove the horse forward with ease, shouting commands in a language both strange and comforting. The tongue of the Britons, she thought.

  When they arrived at the open landing area of the port, Clodia finally released her hold. “You are a fine horseman.”

  “My father was a great charioteer,” Artair said. “And a fine boatman, as well.” Artair searched the empty landing, but there were no boats to be found. The river lapped against the concrete slab, which sat above the river by several heads.

  “We shall find one. We must.”

  Then Clodia heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves near the entrance to the landing. Then a familiar voice came from out of the shadows.

  “Neither boat nor boatman you’ll find on the Tiber this day.” Clodia knew the voice immediately. It was Maevia, mounted high on her mare. Beside her, four mounted men gathered. All had swords drawn.

  “How did you find us?” asked Clodia. Maevia and her men fanned out on their horses to create a half circle around Clodia and Artair, trapping them at the edge of the river. They drew closer.

  “My man heard you whispering in the alleyway. You should have killed him when you had the chance.”

  “I do not kill for advantage,” said Clodia.

  “Then you are a fool,” spat Maevia.

  “If you know our plans, then why do you not let us go? The domus passes to you, as do all the slaves,” shouted Clodia.

  “Fatuous girl. Did you think me that naive? Give me the coins. The gold coins. And the jewelry. Then I will consider letting you go.” Clodia glanced at Artair. She moved her eyes toward the Tiber, then back to him. He nodded subtly.

  “All right,” said Clodia, holding up her hands in surrender. “But I must dismount first, to undo the strapping.”

  “Quickly, then,” said Maevia.

  Clodia and Artair swung off their horses and faced Maevia. “It seems you are the fool,” said Clodia. Clodia and Artair smiled, then launched themselves off of the landing and into the waiting arms of the Tiber.

  Chapter Twelve

  Down, Clodia fell. Down, down, deep into the Tiber. Weighted with jewelry and dowry gold, she was as a stone cast into the waters. She kicked desperately but could not bri
ng herself to the surface.

  Then he was there. His strong arm around her waist. He pulled her arm across his wide shoulders, and together they kicked upward. They burst to the surface, and then kicked even harder.

  Maevia and her men crossed the Tiber on the Aemilius bridge, but their distance from Clodia and Artair increased. Clodia and Artair kicked downstream as far as their energy would take them.

  Then they ran. For two days and three nights, they flew, keeping clear of the towns and roads, resting only for short intervals. They barely spoke. They did not dare touch.

  Soon, the rugged Apennines rose up before them. They willed their legs onward, following summer goat trails until they were high enough that not even the best Roman hunters could find them.

  On the fourth morning, they found shelter in the shade of a juniper grove, where they collapsed with exhaustion. Clodia slept the sleep of the gods, the clean air of the high country filling her lungs.

  When she finally awoke, Artair was nowhere to be found. The sun had already begun its descent. Yet it seemed to beat with more intensity than in Rome.

  Flushed with heat, Clodia unstrapped the heavy purse that clung to her side and felt instantly lighter. She would give half of it to Artair, to make a life for himself. And it would still not be enough. What she owed him could never be truly repaid.

  Clodia buried the purse beneath a rock, then followed the sounds of the forest to a rocky stream where a sandy pool beckoned. She walked out on to a shallow sandbar and drank her fill. Then she lifted her off her stola and felt relief wash over her as she stepped into the soothing pool.

  “She wakes,” said Artair, emerging from the forest.

  “There you are,” Clodia said, conscious of her breasts visible through the water. “Where have you been?”

  “Fishing,” Artair said. He held out a piece of wood upon which two large trout rested.