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Atilus the Lanista
BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY E. C. TUBB
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THE ATILUS TRILOGY
1. Atilus the Slave
2. Atilus the Gladiator
3. Atilus the Lanista
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1978 by E. C. Tubb
Copyright © 2013 by Lisa John
First published as part of the omnibus, Gladiator, under the pen name, Edward Thomson; this is its first publication in separate form.
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For Annalise
CHAPTER ONE
Streaming through the tinted glass set in the roof of the solarium, the morning sun threw patches of soft, multi-colored light over the chamber. Smears of red and orange, green, blue, pale violet, and amber dappled the floor, the furnishings, the figure of Aquilia Sabina in her stola of embroidered silk, and the man who stood respectfully before her.
“Domina.” His bow was deferential. “It is an honor to attend one so gracious.”
Praise that she ignored. “You have it?”
Again he bowed. He was a trader from Syria, smoothly plump with oiled and scented hair. His hands were heavy with gemmed rings and his robe was of the finest linen. Turning, he gestured to his slave and, lifting the lid of a long box the man carried, took out a sword. Offering it to the woman he said, “Here it is, Domina. Made in Damascus of the finest steel. The edge will cut through bronze.”
She made no effort to touch it. “Atilus?”
I took the weapon and lifted it to catch the light. The polished surface of the blade shimmered, a glow that rippled as I moved the steel.
“Note the markings,” said the trader. “The sure sign of a true, Damascened blade. One honed to perfection and hardened with countless blows. The edge is as sharp as a razor. The point also—rest it on your thumb and it will draw blood. I swear by the gods that no finer weapon was ever forged by the hand of man.”
A table stood close against a wall; my belt and sword lay on it. Drawing my sword from its scabbard, I rapped the blade against the one the trader had brought. The metallic chime was as sweet as a bell.
Aquilia was impatient. “Do you like it?”
“A moment.”
Again I tested the ring of the metal and then examined the balance of hilt and blade, turning to slash at the air, recovering to stab, to spring to one side, to thrust in a quick series of movements which sent their message into my hand and arm. The balance was perfect. The hilt fit my hand comfortably and, although it was gilded, it had none of the softness of gold. It was a good, workman-like tool, and I said so.
“My reputation is of the best,” the trader said quietly. “I would not offer an inferior weapon to any man whose life depended on it. And surely, only the best is good enough for the most noted gladiator in Rome. The blade will hold its edge longer than most. It will shear through toughened leather and, as I have said, cut bronze. The finish is as you see. The price—” he hesitated, looking at the woman—“is modest.”
The sword was good, but I had a sword, one I could trust. And it took more than an edge to cut through bronze or bone. Again I lifted the blade, prolonging my examination.
“There is, of course, a scabbard,” said the trader quickly, reaching again into the box. “One worthy of the weapon.”
More than worthy. It was heavy with gold, encrusted with jewels, the product of a master artist. Real, easily disposable wealth, which the sword was not. For the first time I smiled.
“A good blade,” I admitted. “One I would like to use in the arena.”
“And you shall.” Aquilia settled the matter with a lift of her hand. “If you want it, Atilus, it is yours.”
I sheathed the blade as, bowing, the merchant retired with his slave. A gift, but one I had earned, one I would have to continue to earn.
“Atilus.” Now that we were alone, her voice became warm and soft. “Have I pleased you?”
“Always, Aquilia, you please me.”
“And you don’t think I’m a stupid old woman?”
To answer I lifted her hand and pressed it to my lips. Old she might be, but not that old, and certainly far from ugly. She could have given me ten years, but in the soft light no one could have guessed it. Tall, slim, hips and thighs smoothly curved, her breasts large and firm, she had a body many younger women would envy. Art had turned her hair into a mass of ebon; a startling contrast to the cultivated whiteness ofher skin. Only when her cosmetics were washed away could the tiny mesh of lines around her eyes be seen. They, together with the fine tracery on her upper lip and the slight sagging of the skin beneath her chin, were the only signs of her advancing years. Minor flaws for which her generosity more than compensated.
And she had other attributes. In Rome a man was wise to choose his friends with care, especially a man who depended on his popularity. A gladiator had to stay in the public eye and be seen risking his life in the arena. Bedding rich women was an easier way of earning a living. It had been over a year now since I had last faced an opponent on the sand.
“I was speaking to Claudia Calvin the other day,” she said. “She was curious about you, Atilus. She kept wanting to know how good a lover you were. Naturally, I said nothing.”
“Is she rich?”
“Yes, but mean. You would be wasting your time with her.”
“And with any woman other than yourself, Aquilia.”
The flattery pleased her and she smiled, but she was a daughter of Rome, and as wise and as cynical as the culture which had created her. The culture of which I was becoming more and more a part. The blood price I had sworn to extract never seemed to be enough. To subject proud patrician women to the embraces of an ex-slave was a form of revenge. A revenge that I think Aquilia sensed and understood.
We had met soon after Verdalia had died, and in the following years she had taught me how best to use the money I had won. Now I needed no advice and, while still lovers, we had also become friends.
“Atilus!” Her hand rested on my hair. In the upper chamber her bed would be waiting, slaves discreetly absent should she decide to use it. Then, as I reached for her, she shuddered and lowered her hand. “No, my darling, as much as you tempt me, I must be firm. It would take too long for the maids to restore my beauty and we haven’t the time. Already we should be at the Circus.”
For days now all Rome had been in a ferment, the air filled with talk of nothing but chariots, teams, noted drivers, and the prospects of victory. Blood had been spilled in ugly battles between rival factions as wagers had risen and tempers grown short. Now, like the roar of distant surf, voices rose from the great amphitheater, the seats crammed with all who could beg, buy, or steal a ticket.
The