The Gladiator's Mistress (Champions of Rome) (19 page)

Chapter 33

Phaedra

Phaedra and her father arrived at what had once been her home with Marcus an hour before the party began. It was odd being here and knowing that Acestes was now the dominus. A life-size bronze donkey, supporting two wicker baskets, sat in the atrium. One basket held black olives and the other green. Dozens of pitchers were filled with gallons of sweet wine mixed with honey. Slaves stood by, ready to give a goblet filled with honeyed wine to guests as they arrived. Phaedra accepted a cup before wandering through the old villa. Acestes had planned the party without any help, and she would see how he had fared.

In the main triclinium a roasted wild boar surrounded by fruit and greens lay atop a silver platter. There were also two of Phaedra’s favorites amid all the other dishes. One was a salad made of coriander, mint, parsley, and fresh salted cheese that was covered with vinegar and olive oil. On a nearby platter, crusts of white bread that had been soaked in milk and then fried now swam in a honey sauce. Dozens of reclining sofas sat along the edges of the big room.

In the medium-size dining room, tables and chairs were made available for any ladies who wanted to dine with only female company. In that room, one table held nothing but tarts. Phaedra took a pine-nut tart as she walked past.

The musicians and dancers hired for the night’s entertainment set up on the patio, in the space where villa and garden became one. She watched from the doorway as the dancers rehearsed. Acestes entered and stood behind her.

“This is all very impressive,” said Phaedra. “People will speak of this party for a long time.”

“Good,” he said. “I spared no expense. I am glad that it is to your liking.”

Ah, so this was what a party could be when enough coin was spent. “It will be to everyone’s liking.”

Phaedra still wore her golden wrap over her gown. Acestes ran his fingers between her skin and the cloth. “Can I help you remove this?”

“Of course,” she said. She stepped forward and left Acestes holding her wrap. “I am not cold and guests will be arriving soon.” Phaedra turned to face him lest he touch her back again.

“Are you certain you are not chilled? Your neck is covered in gooseflesh.”

It was. She hated that Acestes brought out a reaction in her at all. “I am fine,” she said.

“You are more than fine,” he said. “You look beautiful.”

“I appreciate your compliment,” Phaedra said. And she did. She had spent extra time on her appearance and felt beautiful. For the evening, she had chosen a silk gown of emerald green. Terenita had wound gold-and-silver ribbon through the curls of Phaedra’s hair. She had taken such care not for Acestes or the other patricians, but for Valens. She had done it all for Valens.

“You wear the necklace I gave you.”

“My father insisted,” she said.

“I am glad he did.” Acestes led her to the atrium. To prove that he had not been offended by her rude comment, he added, “I am also pleased that you listened to your father. Perhaps you will start listening to his advice on other matters as well.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I doubt it.”

Acestes laughed. “You plan to greet my guests with me, of course.”

“I have thought about that,” she said, irritated that he took her rebukes as part of a game. “I find that I must decline. I want the elite of Rome to focus upon you and your splendid party. I would only serve as a distraction.”

“As widow to Marcus, you should be beside me. It is your right to have a place of honor. Of course, I could speak to your father.” Acestes continued, “He would see that I am right and insist. Or you could see what is right on your own and stop being an obstinate donkey.”

Had he spoken to her thus? The nerve! Well, she would never, ever give Acestes what he wanted. Phaedra looked away. She spied the statue of a donkey, standing in the corner, ridiculously holding baskets of olives. Was she also ridiculous and stubborn?

In the end it would matter little. If she continued to refuse, Acestes would follow up on his threat and involve her father. With a long and weary sigh, she said, “If you wish.”

“Thank you,” said Acestes. “There is no one else with whom I would rather greet my guests.”

Phaedra hated herself for acquiescing. Not only did Acestes now assume she was agreeing to much more than she ever wanted to give him, but once again she had failed to be the strong, decisive woman she had become during her years away from Rome.

For more than twenty minutes, Phaedra stood at Acestes’s side and greeted one prominent Roman citizen after another. Many offered her their condolences. For the first time in many days, her grief for Marcus resurfaced. He had been a good man, a wise man, and Phaedra wondered what advice he might give her now.

She was speaking to the wife of a senator, a matron long known to Phaedra, when the air in the room changed. It became heavier, softer. Her pulse quickened. Without seeing Valens, she sensed his presence. She glanced at the line of waiting guests and saw him at once.

A dozen people back, a group of muscular men stood together. They shuffled from foot to foot, ill at ease with their new surroundings. Valens did not. He stood tall, with his shoulders back. His chest rose and fell with breath—his only discernible movement. He kept his gaze trained on Phaedra. And yet his eyes gave away nothing.

Did he hate her for standing and welcoming guests with Acestes? Or did he care at all? Of the two she preferred his anger to his apathy.

She spoke to the people who separated them but heard little of what they said. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears and fluttered at the base of her neck. Before long he stood in front of her, and her pulse crashed in her head like waves upon the shore. What did she expect from Valens? What did she want? Wanting and having were two different things, and he greeted her without giving away the intimacy they had shared a few nights past.

His hand touched hers and a spark, like the striking of flint, shot through her arm. Valens must have felt it, too.

She tried to meet his gaze, to somehow show Valens that he still lived in her heart and her mind, always. Now that they were close, Valens never looked directly at Phaedra. She blinked away tears of desperation and regret.

A fit man, a part of the group of gladiators, approached Phaedra. “I fought at your wedding,” he said.

“You? I could have sworn my father hired Valens Secundus.”

Valens turned her way. Still, she read nothing of importance in his expression. “He did, my lady, but I could hardly fight myself.”

The other gladiators laughed, not meanly, but Phaedra felt the heat of color rise in her cheeks. An older man with white hair stepped forward. “I am Paullus Secundus, Lanista, and these are my gladiators. You recall Valens Secundus, I see.”

Phaedra inclined her head to Valens in greeting.

“And this is Spurius Mummius Baro, the current Champion of Rome, who also fought at your wedding. We did not know at the time that the two titans of the arena would meet in your garden that night. The Fates must have been smiling upon you, my lady.”

She studied Valens in profile. A sprinkling of black hair on his jaw made her think he had shaved that morning and not since. “I do believe you are right, Paullus.” She turned her gaze back to the lanista. “The Fates were with me on my wedding night.”

The group moved to speak to Acestes. Phaedra watched as they passed. Valens looked over his shoulder and winked so quickly she thought she might be mistaken. He had done that on her wedding night, too. Still a girl, she had stood next to Marcus and watched in awe at the strength and power of Valens. He had seen her, sensed her, and had made that simple and yet lasting connection. If he had not, then she never would have spoken to him later that evening all those years ago.

Without his wink, she would have never met the man Valens Secundus, never loved him.

Without Valens having encouraged her to bargain for her next husband the night of her wedding, she would never have found the courage to speak to her father. That first step, to acknowledge that she too mattered, was the greatest she had yet to take.

She greeted a few late-arriving guests. Still by Acestes’s side, she made her way to the main triclinium, where everyone stood about with cups of wine as slaves passed by with trays of food and drink. Phaedra accepted a cup of wine and stood near her father and Acestes as they talked to a conservative senator about plans to renovate the building where the tax collector was housed.

Fortunada approached and linked her arm through Phaedra’s. “Tell me what you know of the gladiator who fought at your wedding.”

How had Fortunada guessed about her night with Valens? Although Phaedra should not have been surprised at her lifelong friend’s perceptiveness. “Valens Secundus? What do you think I know of him?”

“Not him. The other one. His looks please me.”

“To be honest I did not recognize him at all. His name is Baro, or some such.”

“He is the new Champion of Rome.”

“Or so his lanista says.”

“So everyone says.”

It gave Phaedra joy to see Fortunada excited about something. She looked around the room, hoping to find the gladiator who pleased her friend so well. A banquet before funeral games was the only time that gladiators were welcome guests in the homes of Rome’s elite. As the sponsor, Acestes held an obligation to meet the men who might die for his entertainment and provide them with one last meal.

Aside from the important men of the republic and their wives, Phaedra noticed quite a few patrician widows. Not the ancient kind of widow, either, but younger women who would want to spend time with a virile man. She assumed those women attended to make lovers out of the gladiators. It seemed as though Fortunada wanted that, as well. For a moment Phaedra felt disdain for the women, her friend included. For love, she and Valens had defied convention. Perhaps in knowing that they loved one another, she felt superior. Then the reality of her situation came to her, and she realized that she was no better than they. Or perhaps she was worse, for Phaedra wanted to be with Valens always. The other women simply wanted a companion for a night, a much more sensible desire.

In the corner she saw the lanista, Paullus Secundus. Their eyes met for a moment, and he inclined his head. “Come,” said Phaedra, “let us see what we can learn about your pleasing gladiator.”

“Lanista,” Phaedra said as they approached, “you must tell me your secret to having such winning gladiators.”

“My lady, I did not know the games interested you.”

“They do not, but my friend here”—she pulled Fortunada forward—“says that you have had two champions at your ludus. One champion sounds impressive, but there must be more to it for you to have trained two such successes.”

“I think my gladiators fight well for me because I respect them as people, my lady. I know all of Rome looks upon gladiators as being in the lowest profession. At the same time it idolizes these men. At my ludus they are trained to fight and win. That is all.”

Phaedra had not really been looking for a serious answer to the question, but to give them something polite to discuss. Yet it comforted her to know that Valens had been treated with respect even when he was a slave. “How do you think your Valens will do in his three fights? They are all to the death, and my understanding is that this is unusual.”

“He is not my gladiator, not anymore, although I allowed him to return to the ludus to train. No one has ever tried to fight three times in one week, so I cannot answer your question. No one beat Valens during his career, but he retired two years ago. No one can win forever.”

Phaedra’s palms grew clammy. She gripped the sides of her gown to still her trembling hands. A world without Valens seemed not a place to live, only to survive. “You said he trained with you. Is he not still an accomplished fighter?”

“He is,” said the lanista, “but he trained only a few days. He needs months.”

“He will make a fine showing,” she said, more to ease her own fears than anything else. Paullus answered anyway.

“These fights are to the death. There is no fine showing, only winning and dying,” he said.

“Still, I wager he will win.”

Paullus shrugged both shoulders. “The odds are against him, my lady.”

“Odds? Real wagers are made on these contests?”

“Even after all your travels, in many ways you are so naive,” said Fortunada. “Of course people bet on gladiator fights.”

Phaedra ignored her friend’s rude comment. “Just out of curiosity, what are the odds on Valens Secundus winning all three fights?”

“One hundred and fifty to one, my lady,” said Paullus.

“Someone with coin to spare might make a tidy profit,” said Fortunada. “Pity that I have little coin at all.”

“Many ladies from your social class use their jewelry to secure a wager,” said Paullus.

“Pity that I have even fewer jewels than coin,” said Fortunada.

Phaedra forced herself to laugh with the other two, although secretly it distressed her that the odds of Valens winning all three bouts were so low. She noticed Fortunada looking away and followed her gaze to the gladiator Baro. Phaedra agreed that he was pleasing to look upon with his short, dark hair and skin the color of freshly minted copper, although not as pleasing as Valens.

She twined her arm through the lanista’s and pulled him toward Baro. “I would have a word with you,” she said, “but first we must leave my friend in good company. The dark-skinned gladiator is one of yours, is he not? He said he fought at my wedding.”

Paullus began to lead the way. “Baro, come here, I want you to meet someone. I need to discuss business with Lady Phaedra. You will entertain her friend and see that she comes to no harm?”

Baro smiled at Fortunada, his teeth straight and white against his dark skin. “Of course, Lanista. I will do anything to honor the ludus.”

Dark, with thick muscles, Baro looked like the opposite of Fortunada, with her light hair, fair skin, and long legs. Yet the two made a matched set, and Phaedra doubted that her friend would miss her as she moved away with Paullus.