“Oh, yes, the gladiator.” The wife’s lip curled. The husband and daughter continued to weave, eyes on tasks, in complete silence. “He’s been in and out of here for days, the two of them bellowing at each other. He finally shut up, but she keeps yelling. On the fifth floor, dear. Fortune go with you.”
A small statue of the goddess Fortuna sat at their front door. I touched it for luck, thanked the woman, and ducked into the cool darkness of the insula, beginning my ascent.
Chapter 5
The staircase to the insula’s first floor was well made, the steps outlined in tile. A mosaic depicting a hunting scene lay on the landing between two polished wooden doors with bronze hinges and round knobs in their very centers.
The decor deteriorated as I rose through the next levels. No more tile graced the stairs, and the stone crumbled as I stepped on it. The walls to either side of me had letters scratched into them, crudely done by those with an idle moment. A sketch of a man entering a lady from behind dominated the third-floor landing.
At the top of the fifth flight, I found two doors, both with worn boards, their hinges and knobs black with age. One of the doors was open, the other fixed with a pristine new lock.
I paused on the landing. The stairs went on for another level, and an icy draft poured from cracks in the roof on the next floor.
“Chryseis?” I asked into the open door.
The door behind me slammed open, and a woman of great beauty appeared on the threshold. She had black hair, naturally curled—the thick mass was no wig—that framed the face of a goddess, one a sculptor would want to capture. Dark eyes like hard onyx glared at me.
“What do you want?” Her voice was sharp, brittle.
“Are you Chryseis?” I asked her.
“Who’s asking?” She looked me up and down. “Oh, gods, it’s Leonidas, isn’t it? The one who was freed?”
I nodded. “I—”
“If you’re after Rufus, he isn’t here.” She leaned against the doorframe, one arm above her head, a seductive pose, but her gaze was flinty. Her stola was fastened at only one shoulder and skimmed a body of sultry curves, but Chryseis herself was anything but inviting. “You didn’t come to apologize for him, did you? Save your breath. Tell him he can have his tarts, but he doesn’t get a soft bed here at the same time. Understand? Tell him.”
“I haven’t seen him,” I interjected when she paused for breath. “No one has. When did he leave here?”
Chryseis didn’t appear in the least worried that her husband might be missing. “Last night. Do you mean Rufus hasn’t returned to the ludus? I’ll wager Aemil will beat him something awful.” Her eyes gleamed in anticipation, but her mouth remained a straight line.
“He didn’t,” I said, uneasiness rising. “When exactly did he leave? Did he tell you where he was going?”
“He didn’t have to, did he?” Chryseis snapped. “He’s got two tarts in the Transtiberim, above a wine shop off the Via Aurelia. He thinks I don’t know where they live, but I do. They share the room, and he has both of them. He says he’ll stop, but he never does. I don’t know what he sees in those flat-chested, gnarled-haired nobodies. Tell him if he doesn’t drop them, he’ll never seethisagain.”
She slid the loose stola from her shoulder and caught it at her waist, baring her plump, perfectly round breasts, dark nipples stark against her skin. Sculptors would want to capture those as well.
I pretended not to notice. “It is important I find him.”
“Is it?” Chryseis took a step toward me, but her voice was no softer. “Would you like me, Leonidas?” She glanced into the apartment behind her.
I remained rooted in place, and her eyes flickered in surprise.
“Do you prefer men?” Chryseis restored her stola with quick, efficient movements, clasping the fabric at her shoulder with a gold fibula. “If you are after Rufus, good luck. He won’t look at you. He can’t pull himself out of those two whores.”
I did not answer, letting her believe what she wished. I’d had little interest in women—or men for that matter—in the last few months, my wenching days over. The numbness that had settled over me after winning therudishad made my bed only for sleeping.
But even if I’d been as randy as the youth I once was, Chryseis wouldn’t tempt me. She had great beauty, radiated it, but at the same time, her coldness cut like an obsidian knife. She was the sort who wouldn’t enjoy a lover for his own sake but for how she could control him and what she could make him do.
I’d met women whose faces were plain to the point of ugliness, but they’d been warm and caring, and I ceased noticing they were not lovely. They’d been far more alluring and desirable than Chryseis, who might as well be carved of marble. All the beauty and none of the warmth.
“If Rufus returns, tell him to go to the ludus at once,” I said.
Chryseis’s perfect brows rose. “Aemil is that angry, is he? Perhaps I’ll go with Rufus, to see what Aemil does to him.”
“Just so he reaches it.” I debated telling her about Ajax, but I wondered what good it would do. She might wish the same fate on Rufus, or she might panic and run for the cohorts.
“Good day, Leonidas.” Chryseis folded her arms, her bosom pressing the translucent fabric. “If you want to have me, come back, and then I’ll tell Rufus all about it.”
