was he insane, as Caligula had been. Willful, yes, with a child’s unthinking cruelty, but his upbringing was responsible for that. Even so—why had he done it?
A question I dismissed as the trumpets sounded for the next race.
An hour later we left the Circus. Chariot racing had its devotees, but I was not among them, and Aquilia, conscious of her skin, had no desire to ruin its whiteness by too long an exposure to the sun.
Escorting her home and leaving with a promise of returning later, I made straight for the house I had bought on the slopes of Esquiline. It was large, luxurious, a home fit for a senator with vast estates or a merchant with many profitable interests, and I had filled it with rich furnishings and items of value. Attached to the house was a walled garden filled with a variety of trees and shrubs. Fountains filled the air with a soft tinkling, a sound now acting as an accompaniment to the harsher ringing of steel.
“In, boy, in! You have to be faster than that!”
Agonestes was dressed as if for the arena; the boy, if he was that, was wearing the equipment of a secutor.
“We’ll try again,” said the Greek, tiredly. “Now, as I lift the net, try and anticipate where it will fall. Use the shield to block it, but remember that I’ve got the trident and will drive it into you if you give me the chance. Ready? Now!”
As training it was useless, but I could appreciate Agonestes’s difficulty. It was like teaching a person to read; you first had to explain the characters. Now, slowly, he shifted the net, lifting it, casting it with a flick of his wrist, opening the mesh that fell in a filmy cloud over the other’s helmet.
As the boy lifted his shield too high and too late, the trident darted in to rest blunted points against his chest.
“You’re dead!” I called. “That blow would have killed you.”
“Atilus!” Agonestes turned. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“And I didn’t expect to see you. How are things in Capua?”
“Later.” He glanced at the boy. “You’ve come in good time. Felicio, this is Atilus Cindras. Atilus, meet Felicio Dillius.” He added casually, “His father is high in the treasury.”
A position which explained why the Greek was taking trouble with his son.
“This is an honor.” The boy removed his helmet as he greeted me. “To have actually met the famous Atilus! I have heard my father speak of you.”
“Nothing bad, I hope?”
“No. He considers you to be the finest gladiator of our time. Certainly the one with most style. He’s often talked about those women you trained for the arena.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I know. Four years.”
In the arena that could be a lifetime. And the incident with the women was one I did not wish to remember.
Lifting my hand I said, “See that post? The one covered with straw? Go over there and hit it. Use the full weight of your back and shoulders and make the chaff fly. Send that sword against it as if you were cutting down an enemy of Rome.”
“This?” He looked dubiously at the heavy, blunted weapon in his hand.
“That. If you want to build up your sword arm, that’s the way to do it. Keep at it until you’re told to stop. Now, Felicio, move!”
Jerking my head at Agonestes, I led the way into the house. Inside it was cool and a slave brought us wine. “How long are you stuck with the boy?” I asked Agonestes.
“Until this evening, when a slave will come to escort him back home. Then, again, tomorrow, and after that, maybe until he gets bored.”
“Why bother? So his father’s rich, but what is that to you?”
Agonestes said dryly, “As you said, Atilus, his father is rich. He’s crazed on the arena and would have undergone training as a gladiator if it hadn’t been for a twisted spine. He might even have fought as a volunteer, and could even have won a few bouts and got it out of his system. It’s happened.”
But not often. Many volunteered to fight, and among them were the sons of patricians who were either bored or disinherited; but the devotees of the games either remained away from the sand or, if lured to participate, quickly died or found the lure irresistible.
“And the boy?”
“Felicio?” Agonestes shrugged. “I think his father’s trying to live through him. Certainty he interested him in the arena when he was young enough to be taken to see the games and now, I think, he wants to see him fight and win in some small engagement. Not yet, of course, but when he’s ready. As he’s willing to pay for the trouble, I’m taking I can’t object.”
“His own son? The man must be mad!”
“He’s a Roman and sometimes I think all Romans are mad. Do you think the boy is any good?”
“No.” His body was too slight, his bones too frail, and despite his interest he lacked an inner fire, a determination to win, without which no fighter could survive. It could be instilled, given time, but how to take the son of a rich patrician and treat him as a slave? “Not as a swordsman,” I amended. “With the net, perhaps, but his father wouldn’t go for that and, in any case, I wouldn’t bet on him.”
“And me?”
I met his eyes and saw the question, the one each man carried within himself and could never escape. The clock measured a fighter’s life. Agonestes was almost forty, an old age for many, too old for the normal gladiator. Yet he was my friend.
“On you, yes.”
“If you bet on me you’d be a fool,” he said flatly. “I haven’t been in the arena for years and you know it. Not since we took out those women—and I wasn’t fighting then. Time gets us all, Atilus. I’m no exception.”
“You’d fight and you’d win.” I finished my wine. “What do a few years matter? You’ve kept in condition and you are still as good as the best. A little older, perhaps, but what of that? You could take on any of a dozen I’ve seen lately, and have them downed before they knew what hit them.”
It wasn’t wholly a lie and I could see that he was pleased.
“Anyway,” I added, “what does it matter? You’re not going to fight again.”
“What else?” His eyes darkened. “Live on your charity?”
“You have money.”
“I had money,” he corrected. “It’s gone. Some bad investments and, well, other things.”
Young men and, maybe, a few boys. I thought of the boy outside, but he was a true Roman, and would not yield himself to another man. For him, even if he’d had the inclination, it would have been easy to choose. For others it was not so easy. Looking at Agonestes, I felt a quick sympathy. Once so eagerly chased by wealthy patricians, it wasn’t pleasant for him to have to do the chasing.
“You don’t have to worry,” I said. “This house is your home—use it as such.” And before he could object I added, “When my ship comes home we’ll all be rich.”
“Your ship—any word as yet?”
It was the biggest investment and almost the biggest gamble I had ever undertaken. Nothing could beat the gamble of life itself, but this came close. I’d taken a half-share in a trading venture, paying hard-won gold for both vessel and cargo bound for the East. It would trade the goods of Rome for rare and exotic spices, silk, dyes, valuable animals, and anything else the captain decided would bring a profit. The cost had been high, but the potential profit was enormous.
“There were storms in the Aegean,” said Agonestes quietly. “Sabinianus had word of them from a courier