|
|
"He's here."
I heard Apollinarius as in a dream. It was a balmy early summer
night and I was in my private apartment's terrace overlooking
the garden, my old tutor standing behind me.
I didn't need him to tell me that Maximus had arrived. I had seen
the torches preceding the wagon that had carried him from Rome
to my villa in Ostia. The wagon which had carried the man who
had once been Rome's greatest general, beloved by his men and
his emperor's favorite and now was but a slave, a prized stallion
in a gladiators' stable. The man who had freed me from slavery
and whoring. The man the eighteen-year-old illiterate slave and
whore I had been at this time had fallen in love with. The man
the wealthy, free, educated twenty-four-years-old widow that I
was now still loved with an intensity close to desperation.
"He's here."
I had seen the silhouettes of men moving in the shadows and coming into the house. And even if I had not been able to distinguish him, I could feel his presence filling the villa as it had filled that Roman army's camp in Moesia and also the great arena in nearby Rome. I could feel his presence throbbing in the air. And I could also feel it in the painful throbbing of my own flesh.
He was at my villa.
Six years ago, I had ridden away from a life of slavery and whoring. And I had also ridden away from the only man I had ever loved, the man who had shown me the real depth of the abyss I was living in and rescued me from it. The man who had taught me both the wonder of love and the pain that comes with it. The man who had wanted me as badly as I had wanted him but had refused to take me and, instead, sent me away, wealthy and free, to start a new life.
"He's here."
Six years ago he had been General Maximus Decimus Meridius,
the young, ruggedly handsome, proud, powerful General of the Felix
Legions, Commander of the Armies of the North. The man who had
just arrived in my villa was simply The Spaniard, Rome's star
gladiator, the man who had lead a bunch of slaves to an impossible
victory in a bloody recreation of the Second Battle of Carthage.
The gladiator who had won the crowd in his Roman debut, openly
defied an emperor and been saved by his recently acquired, adoring
followers when Commodus had attempted to have him killed.
He was worshiped by the people with the same fierce loyalty with
which his soldiers had worshiped him... worshiped with the same
fierce loyalty with which I had worshiped his memory since I had
been forced to leave him and go ahead with my life.
In Rome, gladiators are revered as symbols of courage and virility
yet at the same time they are despised, the lowliest of the low,
infamia the word they use to make a point about their social status...
or the lack of it. The same one they use for actors and undertakers.
And also for whores.
But the word did not apply to Maximus. There was nothing in him but greatness, whether he dressed in the silvery wolf furs which were the proud symbol of his former office or the blue tunic and leather cuirass splashed with blood that were the symbol of his current one.
Greatness was the only word that had come to my mind when I had seen him sitting in silence at the back of the exhibition cell, completely detached from noise and dust, from the men who praised his warrior's skill and the women who openly praised his god-like body. And despite the horror and anguish I felt, I couldn't but think that no matter how much money men bet on his flesh or how much women lusted after him, they could not fool themselves into believing him to be a mere slave.
Full of dignity and grace he sat on the stone bench with the majesty of an emperor or a god, not like the piece of flesh put on the block for public scrutiny he was supposed to be. His eyes were unfocused, his thoughts far away. What was he thinking about? His far-away farm in sunny Hispania? Was he thinking about her? Or was he thinking about his own fall from grace?
I had screamed his name, my voice rising in anguish and desperation, vainly trying to attract his attention, vainly trying to have him look at me, to show him a friendly, caring face in the ocean of blood lust and naked lust that surrounded him. But he never flinched, he never turned to me, to the pale red-gold haired woman who held the bars of his cell so hard that her hands had ached for days. His infinite dignity shielded him both from mob and aristocracy, from both enemies and friends.
But all his dignity had not been enough to shield him from
greed, and twenty five thousand sesterces had bought what my beauty
and his desire had not being able to get six years ago.
Twenty five thousand sesterces, a legionaire's eight years salary.
Twenty five thousand sesterces, the sum a now dead emperor had
given an eighteen-year-old slave and whore for saving the life
of the man he had loved as a son.
Twenty five thousand sesterces, the money that had bought the
use of his body for a complete week.
Twenty five thousand sesterces for nine days and nine nights --
from market day in Rome to the following market day -- of the
worst form of subjugation and humiliation any human being could
possibly know.
Twenty five thousand sesterces for the flesh and pride and dignity
of a magnificent man who was too good to be a mere mortal.
When I had ordered Apollinarius to make the offer he had flinched
at the amount, not because it was unusually high for a service
like the one I was buying but for he knew it was the same one
I had received along with my freedom when I had risked my life
to save his.
But Apollinarius didn't say a word and simply went away to deal
with the gladiator's owner.
He didn't need to say anything.
He knew.
As he always did.
Apollinarius, my former tutor and mentor.
Apollinarius, my friend and my confident.
Apollinarius, the man who knew me better than any man or woman
would ever know me.
Apollinarius, who had been born a slave as I had been.
Apollinarius, who had been forced into whoring from childhood
as I had been. Apollinarius, freed from Hades by the goodness
of a compassionate man like I had been freed.
Apollinarius, who had lost his beloved not once but twice.
But he had lost them to death and I had lost mine to honor and another woman. Hard as it is, there's a certain, sad beauty in losing your beloved to death. There's a finality and a dignity in it... yet there's no dignity in being rejected, in being desired but left aside without even the comfort of the memories of your beloved's body to warm your empty bed... without a child of his loins in whom to rediscover his eyes, his smile, his laugh no matter how painful that rediscovering is... without a mere letter to comfort you even if it's no love letter... without a few lines to read and re-read time and again by the light of the lamps trying to discover in them what you want to be there. Without even a piece of papyrus to caress and sniff searching for his musky, male scent... and to press to your bare flesh while you pretend it's his bare flesh that's touching you ...
"Julia?"
I sobered but didn't turn around. I couldn't do it. I wasn't ready to face Apollinarius. Instead, I looked at my knuckles as my hands held the marble rail of the terrace with the same desperate tension as they had held his cell's bars. My fingers were cold and as white and as lifeless as the polished stone under them.
"Julia?"
Apollinarius' voice was soft and gentle as it always was but softness and gentleness were not enough to disguise his worry. He didn't know anything about the man who had just arrived in chains to my villa but what I have told him, first between hysterical sobs, then with the deadly calm of someone who's so lucid that can only be mad. This and what he had seen at the arena, when we had stepped together into this huge theatre of blood lust and death for the first time in our lives. Yet he had trusted me and had been by my side as I plotted the way to have the only man I ever loved brought into my house. He had been by my side and even taken the necessary and unpleasant negotiations from my hands and dealt with the gladiator's owner himself.
"I heard you, my friend," I said still looking into
the night. Torches lighted the way to the massive house and allowed
glimpses of the trees and bushes and flower beds that adorned
the gardens I had designed a few years ago. The moon shone over
the beach and I could hear the surf sighing and purring like a
giant, sleepy cat.
"Should I go down now?" he asked.
"Yes, go and do as we agreed."
I could feel his hesitation.
"What is it, my friend?"
"He... he's going to be... upset... when he learns."
I couldn't but smile a little, bitter smile and turned around
to face my friend. He stood tall and elegant, his slender body
wrapped in the pristine folds of his toga, his prematurely white
hair neatly trimmed and combed, his beautiful, manicured hands
resting at his sides and not betraying the tension I knew was
there, his soft, gentle hazel eyes so full of kindness and compassion.
Slowly, I walked towards him holding close the peach colored silk robe I was wearing, padding barefooted on the mosaic floor. "Yes, he's going to be upset," I agreed. Twenty five thousand sesterces had also bought his master's silence about the reason why he had been brought to my villa. I had insisted on it for fear Maximus would kill himself if he knew he had been rented and why, before he got to know the truth.
"Go," I went on, "and do as we agreed... if
you have the opportunity, tell him he's in no danger ... but if
you think this can raise Proximo's suspicions, just go ahead with
the charade. Later there will be time for... apologies and explanations."
Later... in the few hours before dawn and the departure of the
ship which awaited at the harbour, ready to take him to Spain.
To take him away from me once more. To take him to the wife he
loved. There would be time for apologies and explanations if not
for anything else.
Apollinarius' eyes darkened with concern. "Julia, are
you going to be alright? I mean--"
I raised a hand to stop him. "Go, Apollinarius, and do as
we agreed. I will be alright and go down when you tell me it's
safe."
He seemed reluctant to go. I raised my hand again and caressed
his cleanly shaven cheek, soft as a woman's and pale as mine,
so different from the bearded, tanned one I so longed to caress.
"Go, my friend," I pushed him.
He took my hand in his and brought it to his lips, lightly kissing
my cold fingers. Then, he turned on his heel and walked towards
the door.
"Apollinarius?" I called to him.
He stopped at the threshold and turned to look at me.
"Before you go to the library, please, make sure that the
servants retire to their quarters and don't come into the house
until morning."
He nodded and silently left my apartment.
I remained standing in the middle of the room, staring at nothing, the wild pounding of my heart betraying the tension my statue-like pose denied. I don't know how long I remained there till a warm, furry body caressed my legs. Brought out of my reverie, I looked down to find Rubia gently purring and rubbing herself against my ankles. I bowed and took in my arms the huge, three-coloured she-cat which had been my companion since my arrival in Rome. She looked at me with her enigmatic, beautiful green eyes and gently brushed my mouth with her paw as if trying to offer me some kind of feline comfort. I hugged her and Rubia endured my undignified display of affection with the indulgence deserved by a child.
Still holding the cat in my arms, I sat down on a chair and put her on my lap, rubbing her neck and ears as Rubia loved me to do. I sat there and looked at my own reflection in the polished mirror mounted on the table where ivory and silver brushes and combs shared the surface with expensive bottles of perfume and an even more expensive jeweled coffer.
The mirror showed me the reflection of a tall, pale, beautiful woman whose waist-long red gold hair had been artfully coiled and pined following the dictates of both fashion and decency. A woman devoid of make up and jewels, with huge blue eyes staring at herself -- not truly seeing the woman she was but the former slave and whore who six years before had ridden away from a military camp in Moesia and the only man she'd ever love, heading towards Rome and a new life she had never dared dream about. A life she had feared more than she had ever feared anything or anyone. For it had taken but one fateful night to teach her the wonder of feeling safe and warm and cared for. It had taken but one night after a whole a life of whoring to teach her how it feels to love and the pride and wonder of being desired by the man she loved. And it had taken but one fateful night to also teach her the real depth of her own, desperate loneliness. And it was towards that loneliness that I rode, as my horse rode towards Rome.