Three days before the Ides, Cassia and I, Marcianus, Gaius and his cousins, and all the gladiators walked out of the ludus and west up into the hills to the place Aemil burned the remains of gladiators who’d fallen.
Others from thecollegiaof gladiators joined us, men from ludi on the outskirts of Rome, ready to send off a fellow gladiator. Thecollegiawas footing half the fee for Merope and Martolia, as well as for the cremation. I was part of the organization myself, contributing what sums I could to the burial funds plus the collection for widows and children.
Romans came out to watch as we processed. Gaius carried a drum under his arm, beating it in a sad and slow rhythm. Merope and Martolia, in thin gauzy, pure white tunics, moved in a graceful pace to the beat of the drum, tiny bells on their wrists and ankles jingling.
A mule-pulled cart, led by Aemil himself, bore only the body of Ajax. The day before, Chryseis had abruptly announced she’d take Rufus’s body for a private funeral, which she’d conducted yesterday afternoon. She’d burned her late husband with very little ceremony and interred his ashes in her family’s tomb, so Cassia had learned. Chryseis of course had not allowed Merope or Martolia anywhere near. They had to honor Rufus, as the rest of us did, in spirit, and from afar.
Ajax’s body had been kept cool in a cellar under the ludus while Aemil and thecollegiamade the arrangements. At the crest of the hill, where a bare patch around the fresh stack of wood attested to previous pyres, we halted. Aemil and I carried Ajax’s body to the unlit pile.
Gaius increased his tempo. Merope and Martolia swayed and spun, tears glittering on Martolia’s cheeks. No one had hired professional mourners, as Aemil didn’t like them, but the two young women showed the grief that losing a gladiator, one marked for death by his very profession, could bring.
Aemil lit the pyre. Smoke stung my eyes, the sensation taking me back to the day we’d burned Xerxes. His wife had stood by my side, upright and stiff under her veil, the children she’d had by Xerxes huddled against her. I’d lost a friend, she a husband and lover.
I found my eyes wet, a burning in my heart.
A touch brought me back from the past. Cassia, who’d insisted on attending, brushed my bare arm with her fingers. I glanced down at her, but she dropped her hand to her side, her gaze on the flames.
The pyre would burn for some time. I turned and led Cassia away before long, while Merope and Martolia danced their mourning, Gaius weeping as he banged the drum.
Smoke drifted toward the river, the monuments and aqueducts of Rome glittering in the late winter sunshine.
Aemil and thecollegiahad contributed to a marker, which would be erected outside the ludus with those of other gladiators. The stonecutter had been instructed to write:
Ajax, captured in battle in the borderlands, secutor, lived twenty-two years, won thirty matches, lost five, with six draws.
Rufus, freedman of Rome, myrmillo. Lived twenty-five years, won forty matches, lost six, with ten draws.
We fellow gladiators put up this stone to honor them.
Later, someone would scratch under Rufus’s name,Beloved of M., M., and G.
* * *
The day after the funeral,which was the second before the Ides, I was invited to Domitiana Sabinus’s villa, along with Herakles, for a banquet.
Aemil took me aside when I reached the ludus that evening and told me I needed to bring Herakles home tonight alive or throw myself into the river.
Regulus was furious that Herakles had been given leave—Domitiana must have paid Aemil well. Regulus’s voice echoed through the cells, his language foul.
I ignored him, but Herakles gloated. “Don’t wait up, Mother,” he shouted at Regulus, laughing in glee as we walked out the gate.
I was not the only person venturing into Domitiana’s villa this evening. As Herakles and I reached the front gate, a cloaked figure slipped through the small servants’ door in the wall.
I’d argued with Cassia about her accompanying me to the villa, but I’d lost. She’d won me over by pointing out that if Domitiana proved to be the woman sending gladiators to their doom, she and Helvius, her trusted friend, could run for help.
This was only true if Helvius was more loyal to Cassia than to his mistress, and if Helvius himself had nothing to do with the murders. I also knew that further argument was futile, and I reasoned silently that I would be there next to her if anything went wrong.
I finally conceded,ifshe promised to run at the first sign of danger. Cassia had turned away and murmured, “Of course.”
The doorman ushered Herakles and me into the atrium. He barely hid a sneer as he did so, making it clear what he thought of his mistress inviting gladiators to supper.
He shut the gate behind us, the latch clanging into the silence like a cell door closing.
Chapter 16
The doorman led us along the colonnaded garden to the villa and through its enormous atrium, the house rising around us. We passed empty rooms that had oil lamps flickering inside them, illuminating wall paintings and floor mosaics. Domitiana was indeed wealthy if she could place lights for effect in dark, unused portions of the house.
A dining room opened from the peristyle garden, screens pulled closed after we entered to cut the night breeze.
