Cassia shivered, but her determination to do as she outlined did not dim.
With the darkness would come cold. We’d want blankets.
“You will need a place to sleep,” I observed.
I cast my gaze along the empty floor, wondering where that would be. When Cassia didn’t answer, I lifted my head.
She watched me, the trepidation in her eyes, which had subsided over the meal, returning.
She expected me to order her to sleep with me, I realized. Or at least pleasure me until I was tired of it, when she’d curl up on the floor until I wanted her again. She expected it, and I could clearly see the thought terrified her.
The women I’d known in my short life had wanted only one thing from me. Some enjoyed it, some didn’t, but they all wanted a gladiator, or the coin for pleasuring one. Others, like Floriana, wanted not only the money for me employing Lucia’s services, but for the status of having such a famous gladiator prefer her house.
If I touched Cassia, she might fall to the floor in a swoon. Or perhaps die altogether.
Cassia belonged to the sort of people removed from the rest of us, who knew about words, and writing, and the mysteries inside books. This was not a woman trained to sate the primal needs of a fighting man, and I understood that.
“There is room for another bed there.” I pointed at the wall near the door, which would be shielded from the window by the table. “We will find one tomorrow. We’ll just have to be cold tonight.”
“I brought blankets,” Cassia said in a faint voice, motioning to a pile in the shadows.
Of course she had. I would need to find work quickly so we could pay for all this.
“I don’t need you in my bed,” I said bluntly, trying to put her at ease. “I have Lucia.”
Her brows quirked. “Lucia?”
“She is one of Floriana’s women.” I rose, glancing around for my sandals which I found placed neatly by the front door. “I will go to her. You can sleep on my pallet and use the blankets.”
Now Cassia stared at me in shock. She’d probably slept on the floor her entire life, even if scribes in large houses enjoyed slightly better accommodations than other slaves.
Before she could object, argue, explain, or ask more questions, I stepped into my sandals and left.
Floriana was still expecting me to pay her. I would have Cassia make a note of it.
Floriana did not want to let me in. She was more interested in coin than in talk of a benefactor, but Lucia came to my aid, and at last, after some heated argument between the two of them, Floriana admitted me.
Lucia was not beautiful, but she had a sturdiness about her, a ready laugh, and skill at putting me at ease. I never spoke much with her—no pouring out the secrets of my life and my world. Most of the time, I didn’t want to talk about my days at all, which were either tedious or deadly. I preferred to listen to Lucia’s funny stories about men who came to Floriana’s, and the women who did as well, in heavy disguise. Couldn’t let it get about that a senator’s wife had a favorite at Floriana’s in the Subura.
I had new topics for conversation tonight—my new-won freedom, Cassia—but I said little beyond the bare facts. Lucia tried to pry out of me who my benefactor was, but as I didn’t know, I couldn’t enlighten her. I assumed Floriana had told her to find out that information. Lucia cared little about such things.
I was too tired to do much of anything with Lucia except enjoy sleeping in her warmth. I felt her try to wake me up a time or two as I drowsed, before she gave up.
I slept.
In my dreams I pictured Cassia, curled up alone on my pallet, snuggled into the blankets she’d procured. She was vulnerable in the apartment by herself. The door at the bottom of the stairs had a bolt, yes, but any good thief could force it.
I should not have left her there alone. In my dreams I saw a thief armed with a cudgel bursting into our rooms, delighted to find Cassia ready for his taking. Cassia jerked out of sleep, screaming my name, as the man advanced on her.
I started up in alarm to find myself still in Lucia’s bed, in daylight. Sunshine poured through the same crack in the wall, and I rolled over, sore and irritated.
Lucia was once more gone. I reached for my tunic and pulled it on, deciding I’d visit a bathhouse. The public baths were the cheapest but a long walk from Floriana’s. The nearby, smaller baths charged fees I could not pay today. I’d always strode in to any bathhouse I liked, but now Aemil wouldn’t send a slave hurrying behind me to pay. I might persuade them to let me in so they could say I favored them, but I wasn’t certain of my welcome. I was primus palus no longer.
Voices came to me, agitated and rushed, as I tied on my sandals. It was not unusual for Floriana to have trouble with a disgruntled customer or a vigile who tried to procure services in exchange for keeping their building safe from fire.
I’d thrown more than one belligerent man out of Floriana’s house. Some seemed to think that Floriana’s ladies could be treated like unwanted curs. One look at me lumbering at them taught these gentlemen to flee.
I stepped out of Lucia’s cubicle to find her hurrying toward me, face strained. Black tears from the cosmetics she adorned herself with trickled down her cheeks, and the red ochre on her lips stained the corners of her mouth.
“Leonidas, thank the gods. It’s Floriana. She’s powerfully ill.”
Floriana, though reedy, was the most robust of women. However, anyone could eat tainted food and have a bad night, even die from it, and fevers could take one suddenly.
Lucia grabbed my hand and dragged me deeper into the house. The women, groggy and hungover, huddled outside the room at the far end of the corridor, their worry filling me with disquiet.
When Lucia flung back the curtain that hid Floriana’s sleeping chamber, I recoiled from the stench that flowed out. I had to swallow bile before I could peer inside.
Floriana’s cell contained a small square window set high on the wall. The shutter was closed, and I reached above her bed to pull it open.
The window looked out to the back of the building behind this one, but enough morning sunlight trickled in to reveal Floriana lying on her pallet, her knees drawn to her chest. A black, many-curled wig perched on a peg above her bed, and Floriana’s own hair, gray and thin, straggled across her scalp.
She wheezed feebly, her mouth working as she tried to gulp air. Her lips were purple, with a touch of foam in their corners.
I straightened abruptly, nearly ramming into the women who crowded behind me.
“She’s been poisoned,” I snapped. “Lucia, stay with her. Keep her warm and try to get her to vomit.”
I turned on my heel and pushed my way through the ladies, who scattered from me like a flock of birds.
“Where are you going?” Lucia demanded.
“To fetch a medic.”
I knew only one who could save Floriana’s life. I plunged out into the bright Roman daylight, marching resolutely for the Tiber.
Chapter 4
It was not easy to navigate the thronged streets between the Subura and the bridges that crossed the river. Not only did I have to push through the crowd, but as often happened when I walked through Rome, I drew a band of followers. All recognized a gladiator, and most recognized me in particular.