Part 6 (1/2)

”You most certainly will not”

He wrapped an arm around his mother's shoulder. ”Be at ease, mother. I shall not embarra.s.s the Catonii.”

A voice from the entry hall turned mother and son toward the door. ”Is Quintus defiling the family name again?”

Portia's question was asked in jest, but he winced at the bite of truth.

His sister entered hand-in-hand with her husband Lucius, and Octavia pulled away to embrace them both. ”Your brother wants to host a dinner party already.”

”Does he?” Portia did not share her mother's indignation, and instead her narrowed eyes spoke suspicion of his motives. As usual, Lucius remained quiet, content to let his wife speak.

”We're going to prove to the town that we have something to offer that Nigidius Maius does not.”

”And what is that?”

Cato shrugged. ”Choice. Integrity. Change.”

Lucius's eyebrows rose. ”Sounds more like a political party than a dinner party.”

Cato rolled his shoulders, tension sparking down his spine. ”Only a social gathering, brother, I a.s.sure you.” He turned away, but not before he saw Lucius's head bent to Portia's, and the two share a secret smile between them.

He tossed off the chill at Lucius's words, and instead focused on the love between the two of them, but even that left him cold. He was keenly aware that the house was s.p.a.cious enough for a large family, and that he was just as childless as his sister. At least she has someone to love. ”Call a slave, Mother. I want to start writing the invitations.”

Despite his mother's objections, he had messages sent through the city before the day was out, inviting the n.o.bility to a party to be held in his home, three nights hence. There would be no overlap with the scheduled arena games, but with his party the following night, would his guests still be in a celebratory mood?

But the next morning, slaves began appearing at the front door, responses in hand or mouth. Cato had underestimated his opponent.

”My master regrets that he is unable to attend.” The latest messenger seemed to recite from a theater script given to each of the slaves before they arrived in his courtyard.

”That is all?” Cato scowled. ”No reason given?”

A flicker of something in the slave's eye. Amus.e.m.e.nt? Did the slave think Cato a fool? The look disappeared, and the man bowed low and backed out.

In the end, only two of his sixteen invitations were accepted. Hardly the stuff of a successful dinner party. He stood fuming in the courtyard as the last slave slunk away, and Portia and Octavia joined him.

”I am a fool.” He slapped a nearby marble column. It answered with a puff of stone dust that settled to the ground. ”I was trying to buy them all, but they've already sold themselves.” He brushed the powder from his hands. ”I am no better than Maius. No, I am worse. I have even failed to be sordid.”

Portia patted his back. ”You will find another way.” Her voice was soft.

”Is this about the wine alone, Quintus?” His mother's tone accused, though he knew her heart.

”Of course not! The man believes he can control the money, the business, the people of this town. He should not be allow-” Cato sighed. He had fallen into their trap once more.

”Why can you not see it, Quintus?” Portia plucked at his tunic. ”You have been here less than a week, and already you have made an enemy of an evil man. Already your purpose has become to undo him. Can you not see that you are destined for government?”

In truth, he did see it. And that was why his sister, beautiful and sweet as she was, was making him nauseated. Cato rubbed at his forehead, a bit sweaty and out of breath.

It was going to take more than the grapes to distract him.

CHAPTER 9.

Get in there, Ari. You stink.”

The lanista's words stung her femininity, but were more treacherous to her safety.

She had avoided it thus far.

In the field, on the journey she'd joined from Rome to Napoli, and then farther south to Pompeii, it had been challenging to dress alone, bathe alone, be alone. But she found ways.

The gladiator barracks in the center of the city was a different matter.

For four days she had drilled and trained and sweated, but had not bathed. She sensed the odor that clung to her, yet could find no options.

Drusus's stubby fingers jabbed into her back, and pushed her into the dank confines of the barracks surrounding their training field. ”I should send you to the Forum Baths, but this'll have to do.”

Ariella turned to him, faint hope surging at the thought of being sent out of the barracks, to the public baths, but common sense took over and sealed her lips.

And which baths would you enter? The men's or the women's?

A half-dozen men cl.u.s.tered around the fountain built in the outermost room of the barracks, where fresh water from the city's aqueduct flowed from the stone mouth of a G.o.ddess into a shallow basin. A luxury built in the days when the quadriporticus had been the city's main recreation palaestra, not placed here for the gladiators. But from the looks of the men, they were taking full advantage. Paris plunged his head under the gush of water, then flipped it backward, laughing and sending a stream in an arc over his head, his rippled chest gleaming with water. His comrades jested with each other in voices that bounced from the stone walls.

But it was not the water nor the gladiators' amus.e.m.e.nt that flooded Ariella with fear. It was the fact that they were naked, each one of them.

And she was expected to join them.

Floronius cupped his hand in the standing water in the basin and flung water at Ariella as she approached. ”Ah, look men. It would seem Ari has put his shyness behind him.” He was an ugly one, with an even meaner spirit than Paris.

Ariella inhaled, and the odor of sweaty men and the pungent oils they used before sc.r.a.ping themselves filled her nostrils and left her queasy.

They turned their attention to her, and she felt her face flush with the heat of a thousand oil lamps.

Paris guffawed. ”By the looks of his face, I'd say he's still a bit bashful. Come, Ari, we promise not to ridicule your puny body. Don't we, men?” He threw the question out to the others, and of course received loud laughter in response. He stepped to her and reached for the straps of her leather vest. ”Here, I'll even help you.”

Ariella shoved aside the intimate gesture, sickened. ”I will do it myself.”

”Ho, ho!” Paris backed away, palms held outward. ”He does have a spine, men. And now we shall see what else he has!”

Ariella felt as though she could not breathe, and turned to the wall to brace herself against it with one hand. She bent to pry apart the laces of her sandals with the other.

They were not all Roman, the gladiators. In fact, most were not. But they reminded her of those that had sacked her beloved Jerusalem nine years earlier. A l.u.s.t for entertainment that did not know boundaries and would not be denied. Ironic, since it was this city's same l.u.s.t that might be the death of some of them.

They lost interest in her for a moment, so slow was she in removing her sandals. She unbuckled the leather cuff at her waist, with its pocket for her pugio, the short sword, and was soon down to only her tunic. Their amus.e.m.e.nt must have run its course, for they turned back to her.

”You take longer to undress than a maiden on her wedding night!” Floronius pushed his way through the others and shoved three sharp fingers into the flesh of her shoulder. She swatted at him, and he returned with a blow to the side of the head, knocking her to the ground.

They circled her, and she lay there, a mortal at the foot of the G.o.ds, vulnerable and helpless in the face of their wrath.