Drusus as well. Watching and listening on his behalf is nearly as fruitless, but not for lack of men talking. Men whisper amongst themselves. Messages pass from cell to cell if the men are literate, in hushed conversations in the training yard if they aren’t. The gods themselves probably can’t keep up with all the clandestine communication going on within the walls of this ludus, and there’s no telling what else goes on while the gladiators are off with the wives of Pompeii’s elite.
But just as there’s no word of the Lady Verina, I’ve heard nothing from the auctorati or anyone else about messages being sent from the ludus. And anyway, the only thing anyone talks about lately is the upcoming Ludi. Who might survive, who’s likely to die, whether the munerator prefers a fair fight. All of which, of course, depends on how much he’s paid Drusus. If the munerator has paid for fights to the death, then like any lanista, Drusus will deliver. Either way, at least some of us won’t be returning from the games. No familia ever enters and leaves a Ludi in the same numbers.
It’s nearly noon, and I’m sparring with Quintus while Lucius and Titus watch from the sides, when the ludus gates grind open.
Quintus and I both stop and look. So do all the other men in the yard.
Just outside the gate, several servants carefully lower three curtain-shrouded litters to the ground. From the litters, three obviously noble women emerge, dressed in pristine, colorful clothes that probably cost their husbands more than any one of us cost Drusus. The first has two very small children with her, a boy and a girl. The second carries an infant as she helps a young boy from the litter. The third has with her a boy of perhaps seven or eight. The older boy tugs his mother’s hand toward the yard, the sparkle of excitement in his eyes visible from here. The woman smiles down at him, saying something I can’t hear, and he laughs.
Several of the men stop their bouts and start toward the women and children, weapons still in hand. The first woman regards them with fear bordering on contempt, keeping her children back. The second keeps an eye on her son as he trots toward the sparring areas, but I can’t imagine anyone in the familia doesn’t notice the looks she and Sikandar keep exchanging. Or the fact that the infant in the obviously Roman woman’s arms is a black-eyed miniature of the Parthian.
But the third woman, she doesn’t seem to notice any of us at all. She watches her son interacting with Philosir and Hasdrubal, and she laughs when he does as the men tell wild, animated stories about fighting off dozens of men at once while defeating lions with their bare hands. Aside from the first woman, none of the visitors seem remotely concerned about the gladiators handing wooden swords to their children or picking them up on their shoulders.
This is the closest any gladiator comes to behaving as a gentleman, when a woman is among us. Particularly a noblewoman. Maybe it’s the last shred of decency dividing us from the beasts we might one day fight. Or maybe we all just know better than to do anything that might earn us our lanista’s wrath.
Odd, though, seeing women in a ludus like this. With their children in tow and the sun still up, they can’t possibly be here to make use of any of us.
“Who are they?” I ask the men beside me. “And why are they bringing children to a ludus?”
“Children love us.” Quintus glances at me. “Women never brought children to your ludus in Rome?”
I shake my head.
Lucius sniffs. “Well, the children here might be fascinated with us, but that woman in particular?” He nods toward the third mother, the one who seems least concerned about us. “I think she does this just to drive her husband mad with flaunting the child all over the city.”
Before I can ask what he means, Quintus snickers. “Women like that ought to be careful. Playing with the reputation of a politician is dangerous business.”
“A . . .” I glance at Lucius and Quintus. “She’s a politician’s wife?”
“Aye,” Lucius says. “Married to Calvus Laurea himself.”
My breath halts in my throat, and I slowly shift my gaze back to the woman.
So this is the Lady Verina. Women have never turned my head, not even when I was younger, but I can certainly see why any man in Pompeii, never mind the ludus, would bed her. Waist and breasts inspired by Venus herself. Long dark hair braided down her back. Beautiful blue eyes that her son has clearly inherited. “So she brings her son to the ludus?” I ask. “Just to taunt her husband?”
Lucius shakes his head. “Not her son. Grandson.”
Quintus gives a grunt of agreement. “Calvus Laurea hates the boy being seen in public, so she flaunts him every chance she gets.”
“I’ve heard Calvus would just as soon throw the boy to the wolves,” Lucius mutters. “Personally, I think he ought to throw that bitch to the wolves and keep the boy.”
I raise an eyebrow, and both men glance at me.
Quintus lowers his voice to a whisper. “The boy, that’s Kaeso. He’s the bastard son of their daughter Statia. Girl’s long dead, and the gods only know who sired him.”
Lucius sniffs derisively. “And Verina has no shame about trotting him through town at every opportunity.”
“Can’t blame her for fucking with her husband,” Titus says. “I’ve heard he’d be better suited to our profession than his.”
Quintus laughs. “If only so he might get a sword in the gut.”
“He’s a politician,” Lucius says. “He may not be the most scrupulous man in Pompeii, but he’s no fucking lanista.”
“Laurea is a snake is what he is,” Titus spits. “I’ve known scores of gladiators who were perfectly respectable citizens until they ran afoul of that creature.”
“And they wound up as gladiators?” I ask.
Titus nods. “Auctorati, just like the three of you. Don’t matter if a man crosses him on purpose or not. Calvus Laurea never forgets, and he ruins every last one of them. Bankrupts them, destroys their reputation—”
“And they die in the arena with the rest of us,” Quintus grumbles.
My skin crawls and my guts twist. So what do the Fates have in store for a falsified auctoratus who knows of this man’s wife’s alleged indiscretions? If Fortune grants me anything in my life, let it be a death that isn’t on a cross.
“This politician’s wife,” I say as I watch the woman and her grandson. “Seems like she goes to a lot of trouble and risk just to taunt her husband. Especially considering all the women who find other ways to use us against their husbands.”
Lucius laughs dryly. “And you know, that one’s probably the only woman who comes near a gladiator and never fucks one of us.”
“Is that so?”
He nods. “Pity, too. What I wouldn’t give . . .” He releases a breath and watches her.
I watch her too, though without quite the same fascination. She’s beautiful, yes, and any man would be a fool to turn her away, but all I can think is, So you’re the one. The reason I’m here.
But who is the reason she is here?
I watch her eyes. Follow wherever she looks, waiting for that exchanged glance to reveal the name I’m to give to Calvus.
Nothing. She gives me nothing. Her gaze drifts from one man to the next, but her expression only changes whenever she looks at her grandson and smiles. Either she’s incredibly adept at hiding her affections, or the man she’s bedding isn’t here. Or that man doesn’t exist at all, and she’s only here to flaunt the grandson her husband would prefer to deny.
But something tells me Calvus won’t accept any of those answers.
The women and children leave, and we’re back to our intense training as if there were never any disturbance. I can’t forget her, but like the men, I have to concentrate on the upcoming Ludi, and before long my mind is back on the sparring at hand.
The afternoon is growing hot, the sun beating on my back and shoulders. Muscles ache, bruises throb; even the dulled and wooden training weapons are biting in harder and leaving darker marks these days. We’re days away from roaring spectators and sharpened blades, and it shows in every man’s fighting stance and every intense, punishing match.