Part 24 (2/2)

Cato whirled from her. She was unreasonable. She would wear a mask, and with the fight staged to make her the winner . . . there was no reason for her to refuse. And she clearly had forgotten that she was a slave to be commanded, not entreated. ”Be ready after the first course is served. I will have Italicus fetch equipment from the barracks for both you and Ruso, and you can work out the staging with him.”

She said nothing, and he left her to think through her irrational obstinacy.

Hours later, the triclinium had been laid with enough delicacies of food and comforts of appointment to render it the slave quarters' ant.i.thesis. As Cato surveyed the work of his slaves, he felt the first twinge of uncertainty over his request of Ariella.

But the sun had set, and guests were arriving. Cato greeted each at the doorway of the triclinium, and seated them around the U-shaped table arrangement according to their status, as was customary. They wasted no time in setting to the wine and breads, and speaking in low tones of money and property and politics.

Valerius appeared some time later with several of his slaves, including the young man for whom he appeared to have a special fondness. The senator took the middle couch.

Cato welcomed them all and summoned the slaves to bring the first course of oysters and wild poultry. Hired musicians began to play stringed lyres in the corner, and the wine was kept flowing. His younger sister's face appeared at the room's entrance and he shooed her away, to Isabella's great annoyance.

Cato had planned this dinner party for days, but now found himself unable to concentrate. He reclined next to Valerius, but the man's grating, high-pitched laugh and vulgar conversation forced his thoughts elsewhere. Ariella would appear soon. She feared interaction with Valerius. Why? Should he have asked?

He tried to taste the oysters with their spicy garum sauce. Had it gone rancid? No one else seemed bothered. But even the smell sickened him.

He was beginning to think he had made a mistake when a figure darkened the doorway. Ruso, the slave Cato had a.s.signed as Ariella's opponent. He wore the simple armor of a Gaul, and stood silent, his eyes on Cato.

”Ah, here we are!” Valerius sat up at once. ”Something to save us from the tedium of this party.” He patted his fingertips together. ”Is this the fighter you have purchased for yourself, Cato? He looks a bit weak in the chest, if you ask me.”

”This is Ruso.” Cato half-rose on his couch, his stomach churning. ”He will fight my gladiator, Scorpion Fish.”

At that, Ariella stepped to Ruso's side and the room applauded. Cato's choice of entertainment had won them over, but the victory felt hollow and his mouth had gone dry.

Ariella wore her helmet with the fish insignia. He could see only her eyes, and they were trained on him and him alone, as though even to look at Valerius would invite recognition.

Do not look at me thus, Ariella.

”Come.” Valerius pushed himself to standing. ”It will not do to see a battle here. To the atrium!”

The rest of the guests followed suit, as though Valerius were their host. It was just as well, for Cato had lost the use of his tongue.

He was the last out of the triclinium, and reached the atrium with heart pounding and his palms slick with regret. It was a mistake. Her eyes told him that and more. He crossed the paving stones to where she stood opposite Ruso.

”You do not have to do this.” He kept his voice low, for her alone. ”I was wrong-”

She jerked her trident up between them, and Cato had to pull backward to avoid injury.

The dinner guests hooted in amus.e.m.e.nt. One of them shouted, ”Careful, Cato. You'll be the first casualty!”

”No, he is a seasoned fighter,” another called. ”Remember the arena?”

More laughter, but Cato's eyes were still on hers. Pleading.

But Ariella had made up her mind. Her eyes were like two dark bits of stone s.h.i.+ning through the slatted helmet, cold and hard as Bellona, G.o.ddess of war. Ari lowered the trident until its three p.r.o.ngs rested at the base of his throat.

Again he heard the catcalls of his guests. Cato took two steps backward and was pulled to their circle, leaving the open s.p.a.ce for the two fighters.

Ariella faced her opponent, legs slightly bent in that familiar stance he had first seen in the training yard so many weeks ago.

And then she rushed him, trident upraised. With the first clash of iron on iron, Cato's hand went to his forehead, eyes covered.

He had brought this shame on her-and now he could not bear to watch.

CHAPTER 37.

Balance the weight. Slightly forward. Back and forth.

The training flowed back into Ariella's arms and legs as though she had left the barracks only moments ago.

Eyes on Ruso. Always watch the eyes.

She and Ruso had not had much time to drill together. Had her rushed lesson on exhibition been enough to keep the slave from stupidity?

Cato stood apart. His hand s.h.i.+elded his gray eyes, as though he could not watch.

She forced her attention to the fight. Only the fight. To think of her audience was to invite danger. She would not even look on her enemy's face.

Ariella thrust forward to her opponent's pullback and noted his pale face.

Follow me, Ruso. Focus.

She flutter-stepped back and forth, circled the young man, swung her sword arm. Her weapon clanged onto his and the sound echoed off the stone walls and pillars. The green of the courtyard's shrubbery blurred with the white togas of her audience, their purple- and red-edged robes like strange flowers among the garden.

At the first strike, the party guests sent up a raucous cheer, like young boys watching a street brawl.

She would not look at Valerius. The thought of him there in the circle, his pretty face and vicious temper focused on her, made her sick. s.n.a.t.c.hes of memory fought for her attention, images and horrors from their time together.

She drove forward, propelled by angry memories, backing Ruso toward the guests. Then parried and circled, her feet sliding and sc.r.a.ping the stone pavement in a familiar rhythm.

The trident and net brought back some sense of invincibility. She welcomed the feeling. Behind her helmet, she was unknown and unknowable.

He had promised.

In the blur of garden and guest, somehow Cato's face alone remained distinct. She saw his agonized look. An illogical pity flamed in her chest. Do not fear for me. I am invincible.

They had only to give a good show, a believable display, with no harm on either side. But such a feat was more difficult than it looked.

Ruso's steps faltered. He tripped and fell toward Ariella's trident. She yanked the weapon away, but not before it had pierced the leather across his chest.

The men around her once again let out a yelp, and Ruso's eyes widened.

Ariella saw the panic there, backed away to give him s.p.a.ce. But it was too late. He had lost the confidence of the display, and she could read the fear. He believed the fight had become real.

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