Текст книги "The Left Hand of Calvus"

Автор книги: L. A. Witt

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

“You don’t have to explain,” I say. “You’re injured. I understand.”

I pick up the tunic and breastplate.

With his good arm, he reaches for one of the ties on his shoulder, and he hesitates. He glances down at his women’s clothes, and then his eyes flick up to meet mine. “Saevius, this . . .”

“Drusus,” I whisper. “I’ll help you.”

“I know, but . . .” He swallows.

I set the breastplate and tunic on the furs beside me, and then walk around behind him. I gently push his hand away from his shoulder. “Let me.”

He hesitates again, but finally lowers his hand. I tug at the tie, and it disintegrates into twin ribbons. On the other shoulder, the same.

The thin, colorful silks fall away, sliding down before pooling at his feet.

There’s no mistaking now what Drusus has hidden all this time. Slender shoulders. The sweeping curve of waist and hip that my hands slid over moments ago. When he turns slightly, the distinctly feminine swell of breasts is no longer concealed by leather armor. Even the violent bruises darkening his torso and the bandaged wounds on his side and shoulder can’t mask the soft, delicate shape any more than they did on the women who fought in the arena at the Ludi Appollinares.

Drusus tries to fold his arms, but flinches, grimacing as he lowers his arm over his bruised and bandaged side.

I pick up his clothing and help him dress. As his tunic settles onto his narrow shoulders, Drusus releases a long breath.

I put my hands on his shoulders and lean in to kiss the side of his neck. He shivers, especially when I murmur, “Turn around.”

Slowly, he does, and I never imagined it was possible for the eyes of Drusus to hold as much fear as they do now.

I trail my fingertips down the side of his face. “I thought you were dead, Drusus.”

“So did I.” He sweeps his tongue across his lips. “If you hadn’t come . . .”

“I wouldn’t leave you.” I brush my thumb over his cheekbone. “And I won’t let anything happen to your son.”

Drusus closes his eyes, and I feel more than hear him whisper, “Thank you.”

“Does Kaeso know?” I ask. “That he’s your son?”

Drusus shakes his head slowly. “No. He doesn’t.” He sighs. “It was too dangerous for him to know. Mother and I were going to wait until he was older, when he could understand the consequences if he told anyone.”

“Wise.” I finish helping him dress, until there’s nothing left but his belt and breastplate. He can’t manage the thick belt without jarring his injured shoulder, so I fasten it for him.

Drusus clears his throat. “So, you wanted to know how this . . .”

“I’m curious.” I pick up his breastplate. “But only if you wish to explain it.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his short hair. “The gods must have had a laugh the day I was born. They know as well as I do I was born to be a man, but I was given this body instead.” He makes a face as he gestures sharply at himself. “From the time I was very small, I’d secretly leave the villa dressed as a boy. No one knew or suspected a thing. As I got older, there were . . . signs. And I thought I hid them, but apparently I didn’t hide them well enough.” He faces me. “Not from the five boys who cornered me behind the Temple of Apollo.”

All the air rushes out of my lungs and I nearly drop the leather armor in my hands.

Drusus releases a long breath. “They swore if I ever spoke a word of the things they did, then they would tell my father I insisted I was a boy whenever I left the villa.” Drusus lowers his gaze and folds his arms as tightly across his chest as his injuries will allow. “The gods only know how long it would have gone on if not for Kaeso.”

“They left you alone once they knew you were with child?”

“Of course. None of them wanted to be accused of being Kaeso’s father and then required to marry me.” He sighs. “Father had no use for me after that. I refused to be a woman. I wasn’t a virgin and I’d soon have the bastard child to prove it. There wasn’t a man in the city who’d marry me, no matter what kind of dowry Father offered. I think he’d have killed me himself if Mother hadn’t paid half a dozen guards to make sure I was protected from him and every other man who wanted me dead.”

My mouth is dry, words deserting my tongue.

Drusus continues, “Mother and I agreed the safest thing for my child and for me was if I disappeared. We made it look like I died when Kaeso was born. Father had gone to the Senate when I gave birth, so I was able to leave.” An unspoken thought darkens Drusus’s expression, his eyes losing focus for a long moment. Then he shakes himself back to life and releases a sharp, bitter breath. “We both knew he wouldn’t care if I was properly buried, and just as Mother expected, he ordered me dumped in a ditch and left for the dogs.” With a shudder, he adds, “He wanted my son thrown in there with me, but Mother refused.”

“And she raised him.” I absently knead the leather in my hands with my fingertips. “After you left.”

Drusus nods. He moves past me and leans over a basin of water at the edge of the room.

“But why are you still in Pompeii?” I ask as he cups his hands in the water. “As a lanista, no less?”

He splashes water on his face a few times. “Where else could I go?” he asks over his shoulder. “Pompeii is all I’ve ever known, and the money Mother gave me would only go so far. So I stayed within the city, but as far from my parents’ house as I could.” He splashes more water on his face. “Mostly, I couldn’t leave my son behind. I just . . . couldn’t.” His gaze drifts around the room, and I’m certain he shudders as he whispers, “So I stayed here and did what I could to survive.”

“And the ludus?” I ask. “How did you get there from . . . from here?”

“Apparently the gods were feeling charitable,” he spits, snatching up a cloth from beside the basin. “Crispinus saw me fighting off two men twice my size. I shudder to think what would have happened if he’d not been there, but fortunately, he was.” Drusus rubs the cloth on his face. “He took me in, and I became his apprentice. He was killed, I took over, and here I am.”

He looks at me again, and all the kohl and paint is gone from his face.

We’re both silent. Without a word, he gestures at the breastplate I’ve forgotten I’m holding. Neither of us speak as I carefully lower the piece of armor onto his shoulders. He grimaces, curses, but between us, we ease it into place.

I pull one set of laces tight, and Drusus flinches, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s all right.” He exhales slowly. “The fall . . . there’s a few bruises . . .”

“I know.” I secure the first tie. “I saw them.”

He shivers. When I tighten another lace, he grunts, then curses.

“How bad is it?” I ask.

“It’ll heal.” Leather squeaks as he shifts. “Lucius broke my fall, fortunately. And a few ribs. Could have been much worse, though.” He mutters something under his breath, then adds, “Still put up a fight, the bastard.”

“Fortune be praised, then, since you’re alive and he isn’t.”

“Fortune be praised indeed,” Drusus says dryly.

I move around to his other side, and begin carefully tightening the laces. “Is it true what the men say about you? That you had half the gladiators killed when you took command of the ludus?”

Drusus laughs. “Legends grow with every telling, don’t they? I—” He flinches, cursing under his breath. Then, “Another decade, and they’ll be saying I slaughtered a thousand men with my bare hands that day.”

I glance up from working on the laces. “What’s the truth?”

“The truth,” he says softly, “is that I didn’t want another Spartacus uprising. Legally I could have killed every man in the familia for murdering Crispinus.” He pauses. “Instead, examples were made of the men involved in his death, and the others were warned that if one of them made even the slightest attempt, I would crucify every last one in the familia.”

“Did anyone challenge your threat?”

He gives a quiet laugh. “No. It would seem they just conjured legends to spread all over Rome.”

I finish tying the lace and stand. “There.” I step back. “It’s on.”

Drusus turns around. When he faces me, he’s as I’m accustomed to seeing him: short hair, the ever-present leather breastplate, the man I swear I used to fear. I wonder now if I dreamed everything before this. Had my wounds weakened my mind as well as my body?

But then our eyes meet, and in his, I see both the man he is and the woman he’s tried to hide.

His cheeks color, and he looks away. “I couldn’t think of anyone else I could trust with this, but I admit I was afraid you’d be repulsed.” He pauses. “By . . . what I claim to be. What I am.”

I let my gaze drift over the familiar shape of the man I’ve come to know. Any other time, in a moment of lust, perhaps I would have been repulsed. I cannot say now what I would have thought in any other situation. All I know now is that Drusus is alive, and nothing else seems relevant.

I gently cradle his neck in both hands and press my lips to his.

“I knew there was something different about you,” he says.

I laugh quietly. “I told you, I’m left-handed.”

Drusus laughs too. “Of course. That’s it.”

Humor fading, I run my fingers through his hair.“So what now? Where will you go?”

“I don’t know yet.” He blows out a breath. “I can’t stay in Pompeii. Not this time.” Desperation fills both his voice and his eyes as he says, “But I can’t leave my son behind.”

“You won’t.” I kiss his forehead. “I’ll make sure of it. I promise.”

Drusus pulls back, but he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he hooks a finger under the chain around my neck, and he slowly draws the brass tag from beneath my tunic. He closes his fist around the chain, and only then does he look in my eyes.

Without a word, he jerks the chain, and it bites into my neck for a heartbeat before it snaps.

We’re both silent for a moment. Drusus clutches the chain in the air between us, the tag swinging back and forth and twinkling in the lamplight.

“I won’t ask this of you as a slave.” He lets the broken chain slip through his fingers and fall to the floor with a muffled rattle. “Man to man, Saevius. I’m asking, not commanding.”

I close my hands around his. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Thank you. You don’t know how much . . .” He trails off, as if he can’t find enough breath to finish speaking.

Without a word, I lean in and press my lips to his. I start to pull back, but decide against it, and instead wrap my arms around him. Drusus sighs softly, parting his lips for my tongue as his hand comes to rest on my hip. Cradling the back of his neck in my hand, I tilt my head and deepen this kiss even more.

When I pull away, I don’t go far and touch my forehead to his.

“I think I have an idea for getting Kaeso back.” I sweep my tongue across my lips. “And first, I need to get your father alone.”

I’m extremely cautious as I approach the house of Laurea. I haven’t been seen here since the day I arrived in Pompeii, and a gladiator appearing on a nobleman’s doorstep is asking to stain the road with his blood.

Four heavily armed guards stand in front of the main gate, shields on their arms and spears at their sides. As I approach, one brings his weapon to the ready.

I show my palms. “I wish to speak to Ataiun.”

The guard sets his jaw. “What’s your business with—”

“My business is with him,” I snap. “And is none of your concern.”

Both men glance at each other, and the one in front of me gives a curt nod.

“Wait here.” He steps inside the gate and murmurs something to another guard, who then jogs into the house.

My heart pounds. With the Lady Verina dead, Calvus has no use for me, and could easily—and without consequence—have one of his men cut my throat right here in the street. I’m gambling with his lust for vengeance and the hope he’ll want Drusus dead more than he wants to dispose of me.

The villa door opens, and Ataiun steps out. He stomps toward me, glaring with his one eye. “Where have you been? I’ve summoned—”

“I need to speak to the Master Calvus.”

He doesn’t move. “What business you have with him can be handled through me.”

“Oh, I don’t think it can.” I lean in a little closer, lowering my voice. “Tell him I have information that is of interest to him in light of what happened yesterday.”

The servant’s eyebrows jump. “What info—”

“If he wants that information, he’ll come—alone—to Madam Gelasia’s brothel before sundown.”

Ataiun sets his jaw. “You’re not in a position to be making demands on your master, gladiator.”

“As the one with the information the master needs,” I reply, “I think I am.”

“This will not—”

“Before sundown, Ataiun.”

He sputters and curses at me, but I turn and walk away, and I refuse to look back. Calvus Laurea will be furious, especially with a slave making demands on him, but I have no doubt he’ll know as well as I do that I’m the one in control now.

He wanted me to be his left hand. Pity he underestimated the left hand’s advantage.

The light in this room is dim and the shadows are deep, the air warm and heavy with perfume, and my stomach is coiled into knots. The sun is going down. If Calvus comes at all, he’ll be here any moment.

And then what? He could slit my throat just for breathing now that he has no more use for me.

The door hinges creak, and I send up one last plea to Fortune to let me walk out of this alive.

Calvus steps into the room, and his face is already contorted with fury. “Saevius.” He slams the door behind him and his lip pulls into a sneer as he strides toward me. “You’re either a fool or incredibly arrogant to call me here and think you’ll walk away alive.”

“Forgive me, Dominus.” I wring my hands and keep my head bowed. “I have information. Information about your—”

“Silence!” he barks. “You will speak carefully, gladiator. You have information of what?”

I lift my chin until I’m looking him in the eye. “The man you’re looking for. I know where he is.”

Calvus doesn’t flinch. “I was told he’s dead.”

I shake my head. “He’s wounded, but no, he’s alive. And no one else knows where he is. Except me.”

“Tell me, then,” he snaps. “Out with it.”

I hold his gaze. “And what guarantee do I have that you’ll let me live once I’ve told you?”

Calvus straightens. “I beg your pardon?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Once you know where he is, then you have no further use for me. What guarantee do I have that I’ll leave this place alive?”

He steps toward me. “You are treading on dangerous ground, gladiator.”

I close some of that remaining distance between us until he backs down just slightly. “And I have information you can get from me and no one else. Do you want to know where your wife’s lover is? Or do you want to kill me and run the risk of him going unpunished?”

He narrows his eyes. “I don’t think you understand what kind of game you’re playing here, gladiator.”

“Don’t I?” I incline my head and tighten my arms across my chest. Shrugging with one shoulder, I say, “I’m a slave. My life is worth only what another man is willing to pay for it, and you could kill me now with no consequence.” I pause. “Well, no consequence aside from the destruction of what’s left of your reputation. Or your own blood being spilled.” Another shrug. “Quite possibly both, unless I get what I want.”

“You’ll get nothing but a blade through your gut when the magistrate and your master learn you stole two hundred sestertii from them.”

“I stole nothing. You and I both know that.”

Calvus laughs sharply. “And you think any man would take the word of a slave over mine? You’re nothing more than—”

“I do, Calvus.” I fold my arms across my chest. “And for that matter, you should know that if I don’t leave this brothel safely, by dawn every man in Pompeii will know of your wife’s affair and of the documents you forged to send me into the ludus as an auctoratus. Along with the five hundred sestertii for Drusus.”

His eyes widen.

I barely keep from grinning triumphantly as I add, “Now who’s playing a dangerous game, Calvus?”

“What is it you want?” he asks through clenched teeth.

“The boy,” I say. “Kaeso.”

Calvus’s eyes widen farther. “Kaeso? What do you want with him?”

“That doesn’t concern you. Where is he?”

“You have no right to—”

“All I want is the boy,” I snarl. “The boy, and my life when I leave here, and your reputation might not suffer as it so deserves to.”

Calvus sniffs with amusement. “He’ll be on a wagon out of Pompeii by dawn if he’s not already.”

My heart drops. “What are you talking about?”

“I have no use for a bastard child,” he growls.

“You sold him?” I hiss. “Your own grandson?”

His lip curls into a snarl. “An illegitimate orphan has no place in the house of the Laurea.”

“Where do I find him?”

“Where do I find my wife’s lover?”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t get what I’m looking for, your reputation is shit at dawn. Your choice.”

His cheek ripples and his lips thin into a straight line. “Tell me where to find the man who defiled my wife and caused her death.”

“Tell me where to find the boy. Without him, I give you nothing.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then he releases a sharp breath. “The trader’s name is Maharbaal. Moves between here and Carthage.”

“And is he still in Pompeii?”

“I don’t know. I sold him the boy and paid no mind to his plans beyond that.” He fidgets impatiently and glares at me. “Now where is my wife’s lover?”

I nod past him. Calvus’s brow furrows. Slowly, still eyeing me for as long as he can, he turns.

From the shadows behind Calvus, arms folded and expression blank, Drusus looks back at him.

Calvus pulls in a breath. “You . . .”

“Yes.” Drusus takes a step forward, letting the faint lamplight illuminate more of his face. “Me.”

“I should break your—” The nobleman stiffens when I press a blade against his back.

“You should stand there,” Drusus says, taking another step forward, “and close your mouth before I have my gladiator cut out your heart.”

Calvus laughs. “I own him, lanista. Not you.”

“And he’s put a dagger to your back at my command.” Drusus raises his eyebrows and lets the subtlest smirk play at his lips. “Seems to me I’m in charge right now.”

“What is it you want?” Calvus snaps. “I’ve told you where to find the boy.”

“You have,” Drusus says with a half-nod. “But my business with you isn’t complete.”

“Isn’t fucking my wife enough?”

“I never touched your wife.”

“Then what—”

“Look at my face,” Drusus says through his teeth. “Recognize me?”

“Of course I do,” Calvus says. “Everyone in Pompeii knows your flesh-mongering face, you—”

“No, Calvus Laurea.” Drusus steps forward. “Look closer.”

Calvus draws back slightly, as much as I let him. “You’re a lanista, what more do—”

“Oh, Jupiter’s balls, you fool. Look closer.” Drusus gestures at his own face. “You don’t recognize me? At all?” His eyes narrow. “You don’t recognize your own flesh and blood?”

Calvus sucks in a breath. “I don’t . . . you aren’t . . .”

“I am.”

The nobleman squares his shoulders. “That’s not possible. You are not my daughter.”

Leather creaks as Drusus shifts his arms on top of the breastplate. “I’m not your daughter, no. But I am the one you named Statia.”

“My daughter Statia is dead,” Calvus snarls.

“And I’m sure you’ve grieved her every day for the last eight years, haven’t you?” Drusus throws back. “Just as Mother did.”

“Your mother was as much a whore as you—”

Drusus throws a fist into his father’s face, and I just get the dagger out of the way before Calvus would have impaled himself on it.

“Don’t speak about my mother that way,” Drusus says through clenched teeth. “She never touched another man but you.”

Calvus dabs his nose and mouth, then glares at his son. He takes in a breath to speak, but Drusus doesn’t give him the chance.

“I’m going to ask you once, and only once.” Drusus’s voice is quiet, but dangerous. “Where. Is. My son?”

Calvus draws back, pressing into the blade in my hand like he’s forgotten it’s there at all. With a satisfying waver in his voice, he says, “I told you everything I know. I sold him to Maharbaal.”

“And where do I find this Maharbaal?”

Calvus squirms between his son and my dagger. “I told you! I don’t even know if he’s still in—”

“Kill him,” Drusus says flippantly.

I press the blade in harder.

“Wait!” Calvus tenses. “Wait. Please.”

Drusus nods toward me, and I take some pressure off the weapon.

Calvus exhales. “I had Ataiun make sure the boy would be taken away from Pompeii.”

Drusus’s jaw clenches and his eyebrows lower, but he doesn’t speak.

“Maharbaal said he’d be taken to Carthage,” Calvus says. “And sold there. That’s all I know, I swear it.”

Drusus locks eyes with his father. Long, silent heartbeats pass, and still he doesn’t move or speak. Finally, he whispers, “You sold your own grandson.”

“My—”

“Save your breath,” Drusus snaps. “I’ve lived my life as a lanista because it was the only way I could survive. My mother—your wife—is dead. And now your own grandson is in a cage somewhere on his way to a life of slavery.”

Before his father can speak, Drusus waves a hand at me.

I knock Calvus’s knees out from under him, and he drops onto the floor between me and Drusus. I kneel and bind Calvus’s wrists with a length of cord. Then I stand, and I pull his head back and press the edge of the blade beneath his jaw.

Drusus leans down, and as he looks Calvus in the eyes, his lip peels back from his teeth. “For all the things you’ve done, Father, may the gods give you tenfold the suffering you’ve inflicted on the rest of us.”

“Statia—”

“Statia is dead,” Drusus says. “Just like you should be.”

He looks past his father and nods at me.

Calvus tries to speak, but I shove a wadded rag into his mouth. He gags, fighting against his restraints.

I take the dagger away from his throat and step around him so he’s staring up at me instead of his son. In all my years as a slave and as a fighter, I’ve never before found more satisfaction than I do in the palpable fear in the eyes of Calvus Laurea as I draw back my fist.

I hit him in the face, and he falls to the side, so I grab the front of his toga and haul him back up on his knees. With a fistful of his toga to steady him, I hit him again. Then again. He groans and gags, and blood bubbles and sprays from his nose. Another close-fisted punch, and his head lolls to one side, his eyes rolling. I wait until he reorients himself and lifts his head, and I draw my fist back again.

A hand stops my elbow. “Easy, Saevius,” Drusus says softly.

Calvus stares up at us, dazed and bleeding and so perfectly, beautifully terrified. Just like he deserves to be. The whites of his eyes gleam in the oil lamp’s faint glow. Blood runs down one side of his face and smears of it darken his pristine toga.

I glance at Drusus. “You sure you want to let him live?”

Kneeling at my feet, Calvus whimpers like a scared child.

Drusus nods. “With everything the people of Pompeii are going to hear after the sun comes up? I want him to be alive and well to watch his reputation crumble.”

I chuckle. “Let’s get out of here, then. He won’t be out long.”

And still, the fear in the nobleman’s eyes grows.

Drusus leans down until he’s inches from his father’s bloodied, terrified face. “Never forget this, and never forget my face. Anything happens to my son between now and the day I die, or if he isn’t where you say he is, I will find you, and I will kill you.”

Calvus stares back, as broken and powerless as he so richly deserves to be, and I doubt he’d be able to speak even if he didn’t have the gag in his mouth.

Drusus spits in his father’s face. Calvus screws his eyes shut and struggles against his restraints, but he can neither move nor wipe his face. Then Drusus steps out of the way, and I send Calvus crumpling to the ground with one last blow to the side of his head.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” I say, shaking the pain out of my hand as Calvus lies unconscious at my feet.

“You’re not the only one,” Drusus says with a soft laugh. “Let’s go. That slaver could be leaving Pompeii any moment.”

We leave Calvus to sleep in his own blood, and carefully close the door behind us.

Madam Gelasia looks up as we walk out, but she doesn’t say a word.

“Now,” Drusus says, sliding his hand into the crook of my elbow as we step out into the night, “we find that damned slaver.”

Calvus wisely told us correctly, and the slaver’s camp is just outside Pompeii.

From a small bluff overlooking the camp, Drusus and I watch the flickering fires and patrolling guards.

“Question is, how do we get Kaeso out?” I scowl at the campsite. “He’s got more guards than your father’s villa.”

“We should try negotiating first.” Drusus glances at me. “It’s safer that way.”

“Think it’ll work?”

He nods. “I know slavers. They’re scum, but they’re businessmen. If we bargain with them for Kaeso rather than take him by force, we’re less likely to get him killed.”

“You’re certain we have enough money?”

Drusus laughs dryly. “We have more than enough to get him back and still live well for years.” I couldn’t argue with that. We’d emptied the ludus’s treasury, sparing only enough for each of the men to start their lives along with the emancipation documents Drusus left behind.

I look out at the campsite again. “I think it’s better I go in and you wait out here,” I say.

“No,” Drusus says. “I should—”

“If negotiating doesn’t work, you’re in no condition to fight.”

“Neither are you.”

“But given the choice between the two of us, it’s best for Kaeso that you stay alive.”

Drusus frowns as he looks out at the slaver’s camp.

“Just wait here.” I turn his face toward me and kiss his forehead. “I’ll get him out.”

I start to go, but Drusus grabs my wrist. “Wait.”

I stop, eyebrows up.

He swallows. “Are you sure you’ll know him when you see him?”

“I will.” I kiss Drusus on the mouth this time. “Trust me, I’ll know him.”

“Thank you, Saevius,” he whispers. “You’ve already done far more for me than I’ve had any right to ask, and this is—”

I silence him with another kiss. “We’ll settle up debts later. After we’ve gotten your son away from this cursed city.”

Drusus nods, and as he lets me go, he sweeps his tongue across his lower lip. “I’ll set up a campfire.” He gestures behind us. “Out of sight from the camp. I’ll wait for you there.”

“Good. Hopefully it won’t take long.”

“Hopefully not.” He kisses me lightly. “Gods be with you.”

After one last, brief kiss, we separate, and I approach the slaver’s camp.

“You there!” A guard barks, readying his spear. “Stop right there.”

“I’m here to see Maharbaal,” I say calmly.

“Maharbaal, eh?” He doesn’t lower his weapon. “Then come in the daylight like everyone else.”

“I don’t have time to wait until sunrise. Let me speak to him, and I’ll be on my way.”

He regards me silently for a moment, then gestures sharply with his weapon. “Get in here, then.” He leads me to a heavily guarded tent at the center of the campsite, and shoves me unceremoniously through the flap.

The slaver is a giant of a man, probably at least a head taller than me and definitely dangerously broader in the shoulders. He sits on a pile of furs with two guards looming in the shadows behind him, and as he lowers his cup, his glare suggests I’m not welcome.

“Pol! What do you want?” he snarls. “I don’t do business in the dead of night.”

“I want to buy a slave from you,” I say quickly.

His expression doesn’t change. “I told you. I don’t—”

“A specific slave.”

His eyebrows lower over his dark eyes. “Which slave?”

“You bought a boy in Pompeii,” I say, “from a nobleman. Calvus Laurea.”

The slaver furrows his brow, but then shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t keep records?” I glare down at him. “What slaver doesn’t keep records of what he buys and from whom?”

“Oh, I keep records.” He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. “But they’re none of your concern.”

“I’m not here to play games. I want the boy.”

“What boy?”

“The boy you bought from Calvus Laurea. I know you have him, so let’s not—”

“Oh, I have him,” the slaver says, but he doesn’t budge. “It’s just that part of the arrangement is that I don’t sell the boy until I’ve taken him far from Pompeii.” He smirks. “And I’m not one to break deals with men who frequently put money into my coin purse.”

I step closer and lower my voice. “You have a choice. You can either sell the boy to me, or I will steal him along with any other slave within—”

The slaver leaps to his feet and lunges at me. He grabs the front of my tunic. “You want your throat cut, you—”

He stops when I press the edge of a blade against his gut. The pair of guards come out of the shadows, weapons at the ready, but Maharbaal puts up a hand. They stop, but don’t back off.

“I wasn’t finished,” I growl. “I’ll free the boy, every other slave nearby, and cut the throat of any man who tries to stop me.” I narrow my eyes. “Including you.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but I press the dagger harder, just keeping it from breaking his flesh.

“Your choice, slaver,” I say quietly. “I buy the boy, or I steal him.” I pause. “And don’t assume killing me will prevent him and all the others from being stolen, because I assure you, I am not working alone.”

His lip curls into a snarl. Then he loosens his grasp on my tunic. “Five hundred sestertii.”

I blink. “For a young boy?”

The snarl turns into a grin. “You want him? You pay my price for him.”

“I have two hundred,” I reply.

He shrugs. “No boy, then.”

I clench my teeth. “That’s many times what you paid for him, and what you’ll sell him for in Carthage. I’ll give you all the coin I have with me, you’ll make a tremendous profit, and I won’t give you or your camp any further trouble.”

Maharbaal silently considers my offer. Then he nods. “All right, then. Two hundred sestertii.” He holds out his hand.

I don’t move. “I want to see him first. He’d best be alive, well, and not branded.”

The slaver sighs impatiently.

“You’re getting two hundred sestertii for the boy,” I snap. “I don’t part with my money until I’m certain I’m getting what I’ve paid for.”

“Very well.” He turns his head and barks, “Akbar.” One of the soldiers steps into the tent. Maharbaal gestures past him. “Get the servant boy. The one that noble fool sold us this morning.”

The soldier replies something in a language I don’t understand, and leaves. When he returns just moments later, he has a young boy with him, and I’d know that face anywhere. He looks up at me with all too familiar blue eyes, and draws back in fear.