I might now be, by law, just another nobody, but I was still Leonidas, the man thousands of people had cheered for until their throats were hoarse. I’d been their champion.
Now they followed me, calling my name, asking me to scratch my letters onto their souvenirs—cups, pictures, an oil lamp with a crude statue of a fighting gladiator on it.
I evaded them as best I could, but even my snarls to get out of my way were received with delight. They wanted me to be the ferocious fighter they saw in the games.
I didn’t have time for the attention today. Floriana was dying, and the only man who could save her would be at the ludus, patching up the gladiators who’d survived the Saturnalian games.
I avoided the imperial fora and the crowds there, skirted the Theatre of Marcellus, and crossed the Campus Flaminius to the Tiber. I headed north to the Pons Agrippae, taking it over the river to the Transtiberium and so to Aemil’s ludus.
The ludus consisted of a large rectangular open area for training, surrounded on four sides by a two-floored building that housed the gladiators, trainers, slaves, and equipment.
Did I feel a throb of fondness when I looked upon the gate, a wistfulness that I would not be exercising, dining, and bedding down with my fellow gladiators?
I had no idea what I felt, and I was not a man to examine his emotions. At the moment, I was too worried about Floriana to be nostalgic.
The gate guard straightened as I came toward him, followed by a few of my devotees. He stared at me in surprise then shouted to a boy who raked the practice ring to run for Aemil.
“No,” I yelled after him. “I want Marcianus.”
The guard opened the gate, closing it quickly as the devotees who’d followed me surged forward. He’d done this for me many a day.
“Did you come to be a trainer?” the guard asked. He liked me, possibly because I’d often tipped him to let me in or out after curfew.
I didn’t bother to answer. Aemil headed for me in his loping trot, the sun glinting on his close-cropped, light-brown hair. He moved swiftly for a man who’d retired from his fighting days ten years ago. Ruthless, he’d been. A gladiator drawing Aemil as an opponent made his peace with the gods beforehand.
“Only a day.” Aemil peered at me smugly. He was a Gaul, captured in battle as a child, but now as Roman in attitude as any consul. “Only a day, and you rush back home.”
“I’ve come for Marcianus. A woman is ill. I need him.”
“Woman?” He scowled. “What woman?”
“Floriana.” I was too hurried to explain, but Aemil knew.
“You want to waste Nonus Marcianus on a whore?” Aemil’s eyes widened in incredulity. “He’s busy.”
Gladiators were more valuable, he meant. We commanded a high price, while prostitutes could be found on every street for an as.
Aemil had no intention of sending for Marcianus, I could see. He’d only come to crow that I’d returned to beg him for employment.
Fortunately, the boy I’d called out to had heard me and was now trotting from the cells, with the lanky medicus behind him.
Nonus Marcianus had gained a reputation for being able to save even the most injured gladiator, alternately cajoling and cursing said gladiator to hold still and let him work. Aemil valued the man, because he couldn’t afford to lose many fighters. The idea that all gladiators battled to the death in every match was a myth. A lanista put years, dedication, and money into training a gladiator for the games. Aemil could ask any price he wanted for us, because he had Marcianus to keep us whole as long as possible.
Marcianus had brown hair and a nose too large for his face. He appeared amiable and even simple, but he was the most capable man I knew.
“You seem to be whole.” Marcianus looked me up and down when he reached me. “Why the commotion?”
I hastily explained, words tumbling. Aemil’s sour expression deepened. “She’s already dead then.” He dismissed Floriana with a wave. “No one survives poison.”
“Not necessarily,” Marcianus said. “Let me get my things.”
Aemil planted himself in front of the medicus. “You’re working on my men. The whore is beyond saving.”
“I’ve set all the bones I need to and closed the worst of the wounds. I have a few moments to spare. I fear the poor lady does not.”
Aemil was large and fearsome. Marcianus, who’d begun life in an Equestrian family, was small-boned and pale from sitting indoors peering at books. However, it was Aemil who grunted and backed down.
“Go on,” he grumbled. “I know you’ll have your way.”
Marcianus immediately left us and disappeared into the cells. He returned in a moment carrying a cloth sack. “We should run.”
Without waiting for my answer, he jogged past me to the gate and out.
By the time we reached the Subura, interested passersby had gathered around Floriana’s house. I pressed through, clearing a path for Marcianus.
A few vigiles lurked on the street, looking on in case the crowd turned into a mob. Vigiles worked mostly at night, watching out for fires, but part of their job was to keep order at any time. A man I recognized as an urban cohort, who performed the same function during the daylight hours, hovered on the opposite side of the gathering, eyeing the vigiles in mistrust.
Neither the vigiles or the urban cohort would even look at the Praetorian Guard who’d stopped to watch. The Praetorian must have been passing on another errand, because those elite fighting men kept themselves to the Palatine or their training field in the Campus Martius.
Lucia hurried out to meet me, parting the onlookers to tug me inside. Marcianus slipped in behind me.
“Has she died?” Marcianus asked in clipped tones.
“No, but she’s powerful sick.” Anguish rang in Lucia’s voice. The other ladies hovered, fearful. Floriana wasn’t always a kind mistress, but if she died, the women would be out on the streets.
Marcianus made his way to the small room at the end of the hall. I heard a whispered groan as Floriana struggled to live.
I pulled Lucia to my side. “Leave him to it.”
Marcianus could make healing concoctions I’d never heard of and knew how to stitch wounds with fine thread so that they closed and mended. Some believed he used magic to assist him, but Marcianus believed in little but what his own experience told him. I had faith in his skill.
He knelt by Floriana’s pallet, never minding the filth pooled there. I do not know what he assessed, but he reached quickly into his bag and instructed that someone bring him a mortar and pestle.
The youngest lady in the house, Marcia, peeled from the group to obey. Marcianus never snapped, never commanded. He simply asked in his reasonable voice, and others hurried to do as he wished.
“Leonidas,” he said in the same quiet tone.
I knew what he meant. “Out,” I said sternly to the hovering women. He needed room to work.
Marcia hurried back with the mortar and pestle. Marcianus dropped something white and hard into the pot and told Marcia to begin grinding. The other women lingered, either from concern or curiosity, but I mercilessly herded them down the hall and out of the house.
Lucia hung on to me as we emerged into the sunshine. Her brown eyes were filled with fear under her henna-dyed hair.