Atilus the Lanista. E. C. Tubb
He broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Your argosy will arrive in its own good time. But I can’t depend on you forever.”
“We’ll be partners. Rome is full of opportunities and I’ll stake you to a venture. We can speculate in land, buy some tenements and add a few extra floors, and there is always the animal trade in beasts for the arena. Look at Ofonius Tigellinus! Once he was a Sicilian horse-trader and now he is Prefect of the Praetorians.”
“I know,” said Agonestes. “Poor old Burrus was barely cold when the Emperor filled his shoes with that crawling sycophant.”
“But he got the position,” I reminded. “Never mind how he climbed, he reached the top. And if a stinking dealer in horses could rise to command the Praetorians, then just think of how high a trained gladiator could rise if he put his mind to it. Don’t look so glum, man. You’ll never starve.”
“No.” He set down his wine. “I know you well enough for that, Atilus, but there is more to life than bread.”
“And you’ll have more,” I promised. “Much more. We both will. Now let me hear no more about you getting old. Listening to you turns my hair gray.”
“If it does, Atilus, there is always dye.”
“And short-sighted women?”
“You’ll never want for those, short-sighted or otherwise. You have the gift, Atilus. The face of a god and a body to match. Rome is covered with inscriptions from young girls who long for your embrace.” Lifting the goblet, he spilled a few drops of wine on the floor. “That for the gods and the rest”—he drank—“to you. Now I’d better see how Felicio is getting on.”
Satisfied, I moved through the house as Agonestes headed toward the garden, his face more relaxed now, his mood brighter because of my reassurance. Inside, Heraculis straightened from his examination of the sword I had brought from Aquilia’s house and the bag of gold lying beside it.
“Take the one,” I said, “and I’ll cut off your hands with the other.”
“And hang them around my neck with a cord? Master, we aren’t in the degenerate East but in Rome.”
“That won’t stop me.”
“Did I say that it would? But, master, it is against the law to subject your slaves to cruel and unnatural punishments.”
“You aren’t a slave now and haven’t been for years. Are there any messages?”
“Three.” He lifted the fingers of one hand. “The Lady Amilia would like you to attend her on a journey she intends to make shortly to Narbonese Gaul. The fee for your protective services has not yet been settled.”
“It won’t be. Gaul is too far and the lady too ugly.”
He lowered one finger. “Grassus Paciaecus extends an invitation for you to stay with him for a few days at—”
“No. I’m not keen on supplying what he wants. What else?”
“An invitation from the Great School for you to attend the banquet to be held in honor of Gallus Caecina on the occasion of his retirement.”
“Gallus retiring?”
“So the message stated. It is by his own wish, I understand. It isn’t for a while as yet, but I said that you would be there.”
“You did right. Gallus retiring!” I shook my head; it seemed incredible. Another proof of the insidious passage of time. He had seemed as solid as the stones of the school itself—as well entrenched as the power of Rome. “I must send him a gift. Look for something both suitable and useful. And be generous.”
“Of course, master. How about the sword the woman gave you? But, no, that would hardly do—she will probably expect you to use it soon.”
I said flatly, “One day, Heraculis, I’m going to grab hold of your insolent tongue and tear it from your mouth. Now order the servants to prepare my bath.”
The bath was of marble, set into the floor, warmed by air heated in a furnace. An expensive luxury, but one which I enjoyed. Now, wallowing in the steaming water, I felt myself relax. Even the momentary irritation caused by Heraculis’s play on words turned to a wry amusement. The man took chances and, one day, he would probably take one too many, but he had little to fear from me and he knew it. As long as I didn’t catch him cheating too heavily on the household accounts, I would tolerate his insolence—and none could better the ex-slave at the suggestive look and implied insult. Even when I had granted him his freedom after Verdalia had died, he had asked, with mock affront, how he was to live.
Leaning back, eyes closed, I could see his wrinkled face.
“You grant me freedom, master,” he had said. “Freedom to do what? To starve? How am I to live at my age? Who will employ me? What shall I do?”
I solved the problem by simply paying him a wage and allowing him to continue as before, but now with greater authority.
But other problems remained. Agonestes had worried me with his talk of storms. The ship on which my fortune depended was long overdue. Storms could account for it; a wise captain would have sought shelter, and Massa Longinus was skilled at his trade, but there were other dangers. Illyrian pirates hunted the seas like famished wolves, uncharted reefs could rip out a bottom, brigands could swoop down from the hills and plunder a crippled vessel that had put into shore for repairs. And always there was the threat of sudden, unpredictable squalls, mutinies, and sickness.
Risks that could not be avoided, but that justified the high profits to be gained from the business.
Tomorrow, I decided, I would make sacrifice to the appropriate gods: Fortunata, Neptune, Jupiter Stator himself. It would do no harm and the priests would be glad of the offerings.
A touch on my shoulder jerked me awake. I looked up into a round, moon-like face.
Heraculis had bought a new slave from Etruria, more for his own comfort, I suspected, than for mine. She was a well-built girl with massive breasts and hips and buttocks to match. Her best feature was the mane of thick, lustrous hair, which rippled like an ebon waterfall to her waist.
“What is it, Fabia?”
She touched me again as if I were fragile glass. “Master, Heraculis told me to attend you.”
He had dressed her for the part. She wore a short, loose robe, which fell just below her hips and gaped at the top to reveal the smooth curves of her naked flesh.
“What did that old goat tell you to do?”
“Simply to attend you, master.” She added, quickly, “I am skilled at massage.”
I doubted it. Her hands, broad, the fingers spatulate, looked more fitted to milk a cow, yet it would do no harm to let her try. I dried and lay on a couch and watched as she filled her palm with warm, scented oil. Deftly she began to rub it on me and then, as her confidence increased, her fingers gently massaged my muscles. Her skill surprised me.
“Where did you learn to do this, Fabia?”
“My old master at the farm used to suffer from cramps and he taught me how to ease them.” Her hands lingered in the region of my hips. “But his body wasn’t as nice as yours.”
“No?”
“No, master. Yours is hard and firm and nice, even if it is scarred.”
My scars didn’t seem to bother her. I felt her hands on my back and shoulders. Heraculis had done well even if unintentionally. The girl had assets and I would see that she developed them. Trained, groomed, and taught a few graces, she would fetch a good price from the owner of a bath that catered to a select clientele—one that would appreciate both her skill at massage and her femininity.
“Master.” She was breathing heavily, her fingers pressing hard. “If you would turn over