‘Water,” Falco ordered, and another slave brought him a goblet. He went up on one elbow and drank deeply. His head throbbed; too much wine at the banquet opening the games the night before. He usually never drank before a contest, but his match today was an exhibition of skill with wooden swords, not a fight to the death. It was taking more and more wine for him to be able to spend time with Epione, to drown the rage in his heart at the woman who used him and was master to his children with the power of life and death over them.
“Gladiator.”
Falco lifted his head in surprise both at the choice of words and the tone. Gaius Marcus stood in front of the table, dressed in his fine tunic.
“Yes?”
“Prepare yourself for battle,” Marcus said.
Falco frowned. “I do not enter until this afternoon.”
“You enter when I tell you to. And that is now.”
Falco swung his feet to the ground and stood, oil glistening on his naked skin. “What is happening?”
“Your opponents await you in the arena,” Marcus’ eyes shifted, not meeting Falco’s harsh gaze.
“And they are?”
“You will enforce the emperor’s laws against the criminals who have been sentenced to the sword. You will carry steel in your hand, not wood.”
Falco felt the bottom of this stomach fall. Not all the thought of having to fight but at the realization that someone was pulling strings. He had only fought like that in his early days, fighting both criminals and animals, honing his deadly trade. It had been years since the last time he had done so. This was an insult of the highest magnitude and he knew it didn’t come from Marcus.
Falco stepped closer to his owner. “Marcus. Tell me.”
“A distinguished senator has returned to Rome. He has made a special request.” Marcus said the words flatly.
“For me?”
“For you.”
“Who is the senator?”
“Domidicus. He arrived late last night.”
Epione’s husband. He was supposed to be in the Province of Gaul for another three months, but he had returned while his wife was still in Falco’s arms. Marcus met Falco’s eyes, and they both knew why Domidicus was back and why he had made these arrangements.
“I cannot refuse Domidicus’s request,” Marcus continued. “He is the nephew of the emperor, and the emperor concurs.”
Falco struggled to understand. Why make him fight the criminals? Even four against one, Falco felt confident he would be the only one left standing. There was more to this than Marcus was telling him.
“You should have kept that”—Marcus gestured at Falco’s groin—“under control.”
“I should have refused her?” Falco was angry now. “You were the one who first sent me to her.”
“Get your gear on,” Marcus ordered. He turned and walked out before Falco could say anything further.
The Emperor Titus had a headache. He’d spent the morning in his audience chamber, listening to the petty squabbling of those who came to him for decisions. And now he had to sit here in the heat, sweltering even in the shade, and watch criminals die in pathetic and usually brief encounters.
Then there was Domidicus and his demand that a certain gladiator be put to death for cuckolding him. Titus knew if he did that in all such instances, there would be no gladiators left. Still, he had allowed Domidicus to bribe the lanista and arrange a match according to his own desires. After all, the senator was a very powerful man and his nephew. And the gladiator was Falco, Cassius’s friend. Killing two birds with one battle in the arena.
And there was still the issue of the Delphic priestess. So far, there had been no sign as she had indicated there would be. He had her seated in the back corner of the imperial box. If there were no sign by dusk, he would have her killed in the arena. It alleviated his headache somewhat to envision various ways he would have the woman dispatched.
Titus turned to Thyestes. “Where is Cassius?”
“In the Praetorian box.”
“Summon him.”
Titus looked over at Domidicus and Epione, who were below him and to the left. It would be interesting to see their reaction when her gladiator died.
“Emperor.” Cassius was in front of him wearing a plain white toga.
“Cassius.” Titus nodded a greeting. “There is a woman there.” Titus waved his imperial staff toward the priestess. “Go to her and listen to her story. I think you will find it interesting.”
“Yes, Emperor.”
Behind the emperor, Kaia was struggling to keep from being sick. The black emotion of the arena was overwhelming. She understood now why the oracle had kept her isolated for so many years. It was difficult to block out the array of feelings that bombarded her from the outside. She could feel the crowd’s blood lust, the fear of those in the arena itself, even the hunger of the animals. Under it all, though, there was something else. A presence, as if under the Earth itself. She pulled her focus on that by the appearance of a man.
“I am Lucius Cassius,” the man said.
Kaia could see the wounds, the leathery skin, and the look in his eyes. He was a killer, but not the one. “I am Kaia, priestess of the Oracle at Delphi.”
“The emperor has sent me to hear what you have to say.”
Vesuvius had never been a quiet mountain. In 5960 B.C. and 3580 B.C. it had erupted with a force to rival the largest known in Europe. In 62 A.D., an earthquake, centered on the volcano, had rocked the entire area, causing great damage.
But the land was fertile with the volcanic soil, and the sea was close, making the area prime real estate, so cities grew under the smoldering brow of the mountain. The largest of these was Pompeii to the southeast, and not far from it the port town of Herculaneum, to the west, on the Bay of Naples. Twenty thousand people made Pompeii their home, while five thousand lived in Herculaneum.
On the slope of the volcano, facing the southern sun, was the smaller town of Oplontis, which catered to the rich villas that dotted the slope, with excellent views of the countryside in all directions. At one of these villas, Porta Vintus, lived Epione’s brother, the distinguished Flavius Lucella, although what exactly he was distinguished for other than inheriting the villa and great wealth from his father, no one was quite sure. There were twelve family members living at his estate, including his wife, six children and various cousins. There were also over two hundred slaves, including Phaedra and Fabron, Falco’s daughter and son.
Lucella had at first protested when Epione had pressed the two small children on him. Not that he was adverse to slaves, but they were too young to work. But as the years had gone by, he had changed his mind. They both worked hard, never complained as slaves were wont to do, and were both growing into quite handsome creatures. In fact Lucella was planning, the next time his fat wife was out of town on one of her insufferable trips to Rome where she spent uncounted amounts of his money, of having first one, then the other, summoned to his quarters. It would be an enjoyable experience, a dip in both waters, hot and cold, so to speak, and the thought of both of them virgins, and siblings, truly excited him.
At the moment that Falco was putting his armor on Lucella was behind his main house in the shade of an olive tree, seeking relief from the terrible heat that had plagued the summer so far. The two slaves were on his mind because one was on either side of him, waving their fans in unison, back and forth, moving the humid air over his corpulent body.
“Faster,” Lucella ordered.
He felt his stomach rumble. Damn that new cook, he thought, before he realized it was not his stomach that was rumbling. He looked up. Thousands of feet above, the ever-present clod hat tipped Vesuvius seemed darker than usual. “The Earth mother stretches,” He muttered. He tried to remember the various gods his wife paid homage to. Which one was responsible for the underground again?