The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) (10 page)

Chapter 16

The eighth and final day of mourning for Senator Marcus Rullus Servilia

Phaedra

Phaedra waited in the atrium as a handful of people arrived to walk Marcus’s body to the cemetery. Large drops of rain fell through the opening in the ceiling and splashed into the pool below. The water level crept higher and higher. She worried that the pool might overflow before the body was removed. Dead things and disease came calling together, and she feared what the water might carry throughout the villa.

The designator, the man hired to organize the funeral, stood at the front of the procession and organized the rest of those gathered. Next in line were the actors who wore waxen masks of Marcus’s notable ancestors. Then came the musicians and after them the praeficae, or mourning women. All of them wore black. Since Marcus had no children and his named heir, Acestes, had not yet returned to Rome, Phaedra’s father took the next place in line reserved for a male heir. Like the son of the deceased, Senator Scaeva draped a dark cloth over his head.

After the hired mourners and the heir, any freed slaves would have come next. Marcus had died with the single directive to make Acestes his heir, so no slaves joined the procession. Next were the influential men of the city, the current consul, Flaccus, and a few other senators Phaedra did not know. After them, a small group of wealthy men gathered, made up of the sons of patrician households. Phaedra lined up with a few other women. As his wife, not the mother of his child, she had no real place in his funeral. She did insist that Terenita join her. Fortunada, a dear and true friend, also came to lend support.

Such a small group for such an important man.

Thunder rumbled and lightning split the sky in two. The rain fell harder, heavier. If it was not for the weather, she imagined that hundreds, if not thousands, of people would now be lining the streets to show their final respects to Marcus. Her father could stop the procession from taking place today, she knew. But what of the body and the diseases it might attract? No. Better to deal with the cremation now. Eight days was long enough.

The doors to the villa opened, and everyone filed out in their assigned order. Marcus’s body, now wrapped in black cloth, lay upon an open litter. Four hired mourners held on to poles at the corners. As Phaedra passed she saw Marcus’s face through the gauze. The denarius she had placed on his mouth had been wedged tightly between his lips.
Good. The ferryman’s fee will not get lost.

Phaedra and Fortunada stood under a square parasol held by Terenita. They took their place near the end of the woefully short line. The bright red silk, meant only to block the harshest rays of the sun, soon leaked and provided no protection from the rain. Phaedra gripped Fortunada’s arm all the tighter as they walked, sliding precariously over the wet paving stones. No one stood on the streets waiting for Marcus Rullus Servilia to pass. No one called out blessings on him or his family. The musicians played. Their wailing instruments sounded much too loud for the empty streets. The mourning women wept. Holding up a waxen imprint of Marcus, the designator lauded Phaedra’s late husband and his considerable life accomplishments.

Befitting a man of Marcus’s importance, the funeral procession made its way through the forum. Her father climbed the rostra and waited. Slaves carried the couch with Marcus’s body up to the platform.

“The family of Marcus Rullus Servilia,” said her father, “is descended from kings by his mother, and on his father’s side from the immortal gods all the way to Saturn. His stock has the sanctity of royalty, and at the same time the supreme power that the gods hold over men. He served the republic of Rome as a soldier, a magistrate, and as one of the most respected members of the Senate. To the gods of the netherworld, we ask that you spread your favors on this, a great man.”

Marcus and his sofa were then taken from the rostra, and Phaedra’s father followed. The procession wound through the deserted streets and out of the city gates.

Rivulets of rain flowed from the upper cliffs of the ceremonial grounds used for cremations and burials. Thin creeks of brown water ran across the dirt, making shallow pools and murky puddles. Mud clung to the bottom of Phaedra’s shoes and stained the hem of her dress. The crowd gathered around a stack of heavy limbs arranged in a mound. Someone had thought to throw a large sheet of canvas over the wood to keep it dry. The designator removed the sheet and threw oil on the wood. The body was placed atop the unlit pyre. It must burn wholly and quickly or else his soul might be trapped forever on the earthly plane. A torch was thrown as the women hired to lament screamed and clawed at their faces.

Hungry red flames spit, threw sparks, and licked at the black shroud. The flesh burned. Phaedra held her stolla over her nose and mouth to mask the stench of rotted meat being cooked. Her stomach threatened to revolt, and her eyes watered. Phaedra knew that she must remain emotionless and composed but found that she could not. She cried tears borne of grief, frustration, and the fear of her uncertain future. She also cried for the loss of her husband and her companion. She bit the inside of her lip. The pain quelled her urge to cry.

The wood charred, turning black and then gray with white edges. The pall disintegrated and the body with it. At the outer ring of the gathered mourners, a rider approached on a great black stallion. The man sat tall and proud. A crimson cape hung from the shoulders of a bronze-and-leather breastplate. The rain wet his golden hair until it fit his skull like a helmet, and his gray eyes matched the stormy clouds. The group separated as the man and his horse approached. The nose, the eyes, and the angles of the chin all looked so familiar. The gods preserve her—it was Marcus, reincarnated, but not as a babe. He had returned to the world of the living as a grown man.

He grew near and nodded at Phaedra as he passed. Her legs trembled and she clung to Fortunada’s arm for support. Phaedra’s father stepped forward and the man stopped. It was then that she saw the differences between this man and her late husband, subtle but present. The tilt of the man’s head was not right. The branding of a Roman legionnaire stood out on his forearm. SPQR—Senate and People of Rome.

“Greetings,” her father said. “We grieve with you, General.”

Acestes had returned.

Chapter 17

Valens

Valens stood under a dripping tree and watched the funeral procession as it entered the cemetery. He found Phaedra at once and his mouth went dry. She was beautiful still. Gone was the long angular shape of youth, in its place the curves that only a woman could possess. Her dark hair made her creamy skin look more delicate—as if she had been wrought by the hands of the gods and created just so Valens would have something worth protecting.

She held on to the arm of a blonde woman. Both wore unadorned dark tunics of deep blue. Phaedra stood at the back of the group, a black stolla over her head, and watched as the fire consumed the shroud and the body within. The pyre burned high, despite the wet—a sure sign that Marcus had already ventured across the River Styx.

Phaedra did not cry. Just like a proud patrician to be without emotion. He almost believed her to be insensitive to her husband’s passing, but every now and then she lifted her hand to her eye and wiped away a single tear.

Not a day during the last four years had passed without Valens imagining this moment. Phaedra, free of marital claims, being reunited with Valens, now a free man. He had wanted to learn to read and write. She had wanted to choose her own husband. Valens had gotten his wish. Had Phaedra gotten hers?

Valens needed to speak to her again and find out. Perhaps he could ask a wealthy enthusiast of the gladiatorial games to make an introduction. He began to think of those he knew who might also know Phaedra, but stopped as a man on horseback approached.

The man wore the long red cloak and leather breastplate of a legionnaire officer. Valens guessed that the man was a relative arriving in the last moments of the funeral. Then he remembered him from the night of Phaedra’s wedding; he was the man who had found them in the garden just seconds after Phaedra had stepped away from their embrace. The man had treated her with great propriety, resting his hand protectively on her elbow.

After the man passed, Valens slipped away. He walked through the gates of the city as the rain slowed and then stopped. The sun peeked from behind voluminous white clouds. The air warmed, and steam rose from the ground. By the time Valens reached his home on the Aventine Hill, his rain-wet tunic had dried and was once again soaked, this time with sweat.

There were many grand homes in Rome, sprawling villas with private baths and gardens where exotic animals wandered free. He had seen such homes while fighting at parties behind their high walls. Then there were the nights that husbands were away and the woman of the house paid him for an entirely different service.

Yes, the Palatine and Aventine hills were filled with opulent and beautiful houses, the likes of which most people living in the Suburra never imagined. While Valens’s own home was not among the residential showplaces of the city, it brought him enormous pride.

Its single story surrounded a formal garden. All the rooms had doors that led to that garden; he woke each morning to birdsong and the scent of flowers in bloom. He liked the gentleness of his new life, although he would never discuss in the company of men a liking for birdsong or fragrant flowers.

The front door opened to a proper atrium tiled in gold and red. A rectangular gap had been cut into its ceiling. A shallow pool, meant to catch rainwater for use in the kitchens, sat underneath. Opposite the front door was the tablinum, the room where Valens conducted his business. Twin hallways branched off from the atrium. Valens lived in a suite of three rooms on the left side of the house, which also held the dining room. Antonice had a similar suite on the right side of the villa, closer to the kitchen.

Modest by some standards and grand by others, but it was all paid for by Valens alone. Enough coin remained to keep a housekeeper
and
a few other servants. He had hired a former trainer to manage affairs as his steward.

“Greetings, dominus,” said his housekeeper, Leto, as Valens walked into his house.

“Greetings.”

Valens scooped a handful of water from the pool and washed the back of his neck.

“Have you a moment?” she asked.

Whenever he saw the housekeeper, he thought of a happy ball. Leto, round of hip and face, possessed an easy laugh and an easier smile. A freewoman born in an Italian province, she had moved to Rome with her husband, who had had the bad fortune to die shortly after. Valens had hired her in the hopes that her jovial manner might ease some of Antonice’s suffering. It had worked at first, but now Antonice preferred the company of a spoiled neighbor, Damian, to that of anyone else. His sister cried or screamed whenever Valens suggested she find other friends.

“Such is the way with girls and love,” Leto had said many times before.

Valens knew little of such matters, yet nodded as if he did.

On this day, he guessed that Leto wanted to discuss his sister’s behavior yet again. “You may have more than a moment, if you need,” he said.

“It is Antonice.”

Valens stood and shook water from his hands. “I assumed as much.”

“I found this in her room.” The housekeeper held out a long pearl necklace that Valens had never seen before.

“You asked her about it?”

“I did. At first she said she bought it with her own coin. Then she said you gave her the money. Later she said it was a gift.”

“Not a gift from me.”

“I did not think so.”

“From Damian?”

“That was my thought.”

“Where is she now?” Valens asked.

“I sent her to her room, but she cursed me for being a fool and left.”

“How long ago?”

“Less than an hour. I sent the steward to look for her. He has not returned, either.”

Valens had hoped to change from his damp and stained tunic, but he needed to find his sister first. He knew to look in the most obvious place—Damian’s home.

Lucky for Valens, Damian lived close by, higher up on the Aventine Hill. During his career as a gladiator, Valens had fought all over the Italian peninsula. In that time he came to recognize that as the republic expanded its borders, it arranged cities on a grid. The forum and government buildings were placed in the center with a large marketplace nearby. Streets ran straight with perpendicular intersections. Why, then, did the city of Rome, the shining jewel of the known world, have so many wandering streets that twisted and turned, coming back on one another, while others ended at a wall? After all these years, Rome still confounded him, although he would never admit to being lost or stop to ask for directions.

Most patricians lived on the Palatine Hill, but Damian’s family resided on the Aventine in a villa modest by aristocratic standards. No guards stood outside the door, waiting to turn away unwanted visitors or announce guests. Valens struck the front door with the side of his fist. An old man with a crooked back answered. “I came for my sister, Antonice,” said Valens. “Retrieve her for me.”

The old man stepped aside, allowing Valens to enter the atrium.

“Wait here for Lady Fortunada,” said the old man before shuffling away.

Valens did not like being left in the atrium when proper manners demanded that he be shown to either a dining room or tablinum. Nor did he wish to see the lady of the house when the master held the power.

A moment passed before a slender blonde woman entered the atrium. She was too young to be Damian’s mother, Valens was certain. And something about her looked familiar. She wore a pale silk tunic cinched under her breasts with a golden belt. Wet hair flowed over her shoulders. Valens was too focused on finding his sister to wonder where he might have met her before.

“Greetings,” the woman said. “I assume you are Valens Secundus. I am Fortunada, sister to Damian. My mother tells me that your sister, Antonice, is a favorite of my brother.”

“So I understand.” At least Damian’s mother and sister knew of Antonice and her frequent visits. The finer points of decorum still evaded Valens. But even he knew that young people needed supervision and that a mother served as the best kind of chaperone.

“The steward said you wished to see your sister. I am sorry,” said Fortunada, “but she is not here.”

“I will speak to your brother, then.”

“He is not here, either.”

“Where is he?”

“I am the sole member of my family in the villa at the moment and just returned from a funeral procession.”

Yes. That was where he had seen Fortunada. She was Phaedra’s companion. “Marcus Rullus Servilia,” he said. He had not meant to speak aloud.

“You knew Marcus?”

Valens shrugged. “I fought at his wedding.”

“Ah, that is right. Phaedra, the bride, or now the widow, is a dear friend of mine.”

“How is your friend?”

“Phaedra? Saddened, I am sure. Do you know her?”

“I spoke to her at the wedding,” he said. “She seemed a kind person.”

“I shall tell her that you asked after her well-being.”

A slave with a jug entered the atrium and filled it with water from the pool. She slipped away as quietly as she had come. In that moment, Valens thought of asking Fortunada to reintroduce him to Phaedra. Still, that favor would have to wait. Right now, he wanted to find his sister.

“Have you any idea where Damian might be? I am certain my sister is with him.”

“Father arranged for him to work with the army’s quartermaster assigned in Rome. He might be there.”

Someone knocked on the door. Valens stepped aside as Fortunada opened a wooden slit and peered into the street. “Mystery solved,” she said as she worked the bolt loose.

Damian entered. In one arm he held a basket. The other one was wrapped around Antonice’s waist. Damian and Antonice were laughing, not bothering to look at anyone beyond each other. She turned to find Valens standing in Damian’s home, and all her merriment ceased.

Antonice clenched her teeth. “What are you doing here?”

Valens flinched at her cutting tone and wondered where his sweet sister had gone. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Damian took me shopping.”

“More jewelry?”

“Yes,” said Antonice.

“Give it back.”

“I will not,” Antonice said, “and you cannot make me.”

“That is where you are wrong.” Valens jerked the basket away.

“That is not yours.” Damian’s eyes flashed with anger as he spoke.

Valens stared a minute before the youth lowered his gaze and shuffled backward a pace or two. In the basket Valens found a length of fine linen wrapped around a golden chain of coins. How much did either cost? More than any gift Antonice should accept. Valens placed the items back in the basket and shoved it into Damian’s gut.

“You both hear me well. There will be no more gifts. Do you understand?”

Damian nodded as his ruddy cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. The shamed look on the youth’s face pleased Valens. Yet Antonice was not so easily embarrassed.

“You cannot tell me what to do. You do not control my life.”

Valens grabbed her arm with a grip he knew she would take seriously. “You are wrong again. I am your brother. Without a father, the law gives me full right to decide about anything you do or do not do. We will take our leave.” Still holding Antonice by the arm, Valens turned to Fortunada. “Excuse the intrusion.”

Fortunada inclined her head. Without a word, she opened the door. Valens led Antonice from the villa and walked toward their house. A sullen silence hung so thick about his sister that Valens imagined he saw a mist.

“You cannot marry him. He is a patrician and you are a pleb. The laws will not allow your union,” Valens said.

“We never planned to marry.”

A cold sweat collected at the nape of Valens’s neck. Antonice understood the law, and still she accepted expensive gifts from Damian. Far from the naive child being led astray, his sister now played the role of the tempting seductress. “I do not know if you toy with him or he with you. This relationship must end.”

“You are jealous that I have someone to love and you do not.”

Valens released Antonice’s arm lest he squeeze and squeeze until he marked her flesh. “You cannot see him again.”

Antonice lifted one shoulder with more defiance than a curse and walked off, unspoken expletives trailing in her wake. What was he to do with an incorrigible sister? Let her go? Throw her over his shoulder and carry her to the house?

How easy life would be if it followed the simple structure of gladiatorial combat—two opponents fighting with strictly enforced rules that determined a single victor.

Valens decided to follow his sister at a close distance. The Fates smiled on them both when Antonice locked herself away in her room before either had a chance to say something else to regret.