The Gladiator Prince (34 page)

“Oh, none of that, little bird,” he said catching up with her and taking her hand. “We will try this plan of yours, but I warn you; at the first sign of danger, we do it my way.”

She snorted. “Which is?”

Hasani tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips. “All in good time,” he said uncertainly. “So what is it you need from the house? Where do we find it?”

Phaedra took in a quiet sigh, thankful Hasani was with her. What she planned terrified her down to her sandals. Did she remember the proportions correctly? Had Althea told her everything? Would there be enough of the ingredients in Thrasea’s house? Nothing but questions spun in her head. The answers seemed days away.

When they got within a block of the house, Hasani forced her behind a tall fence. “You stay here…” She raised her voice to complain, but he simply kissed her. Struggling away from him, she tried to strike him, but he dodged the hand. A bright smile lit his face and he winked at her. “In this, you will listen to me, little bird. If it is safe, I will come back for you. It should not take long.”

He sprinted off down the alleyway toward the house.

It gave Phaedra time to think; something she had dreaded since losing both Bahar and Thane. She could not afford to let grief divert her, but that was the easier emotion to quell. The other was so much more sinister.

Cowardice crawled like a disease up her spine, clouding her judgment. The desire to run was unexpectedly virulent. It crowded her thoughts, pushing everything else aside, propelled by tangible terror and a black dread that slammed her stomach against her spine.

She was only a woman; by the gods, had she known a few weeks ago what choice she would have to make now, she would have fled in the opposite direction. She loved her sister… she loved Thane.
Is that enough?
the urge asked her.
This is madness! They will catch you, torture you then nail you to a cross.

Is your love worth your life?

Her heart pounded madly against her ribs, and a sheen of sweat coated her forehead and back of her neck, leaving her hair damp. All she had to do was go out to the street, turn left, and just walk away. It was that easy.

Is your love worth your life?

Closing her eyes, she bowed her head and did something she had not done since she was a child. She got onto her knees and clasped her hands together. Sorrow constricted her chest until she could barely breathe, and her voice was no more than a whisper. “Please…” she whimpered, grief shaking the words, sobs scrabbling up her throat. “Please, sweet mother
Bona Dea
… make me strong… give me courage to do what I have to,” she pleaded.

As if someone had called her name, the hairs at the back of her neck sprang up, her ears chimed with the echo of a voice she had not heard and the fog parted. In a sparkling revelation, she lifted her head and opened her eyes.

A chilled wind swept up from the ground, making tunnels out of the dust on the road in front of her. Four then five of them danced, while fingers of breeze picked up her hair and made it careen around her head. Out of the strange illusion, Thane’s face appeared, but not that of the stern gladiator. It was soft and warm, gentle, the face he had shared only with her on the night she had given herself to him.

As the winds died down, they gathered the small tunnels together then disappeared into the dusk. When they were gone, they took the doubt with them. Her way was clear, so clear in fact, that it made her ears ring and her throat tingle. She got to her feet and pulled sweet air into her lungs.

When Hasani appeared in front of her, he must have thought she was a mad woman. She laughed at him, and not just a titter or giggle. This was a deep laugh, the kind that burrows into the dark corners of the soul and strips away the despair. It blanketed her heart with warmth, clouded her eyes with tears and pushed a rush of ease through her blood until it lighted every dark corner.

When it finally subsided, she leaned against Hasani to catch her breath. “I am sorry,” she breathed. “It is just… Well, never mind. You would not understand.”

He blinked at her and smiled. “Perhaps more than you know. You must have the luck of the gods. They have not even returned to get their fallen comrades. My assumption is they have headed to the Circus. Come on.”

Phaedra followed him down the alleyway the way they had come. When they arrived at the back of Thrasea’s villa, the two soldiers Hasani had knocked out were bundled together, tied and gagged, well out of sight of the road. It looked as if one of them was still unconscious while the other was just coming too. When he saw them, he mumbled furiously behind the gag and struggled against his bonds, but the pirate had done a good job; the Roman was not going anywhere.

As they entered the back door, Phaedra wasted no time. She headed straight into the kitchen. The house was strangely empty; but she remembered the soldiers had removed all of the slaves to a neighbor until they could sort things out. In her experience, that house had never been quiet.

Hasani stood in the doorway scratching his head. “Tell me again what it is you need?”

“Sulfur, bitumen, pitch and olive oil. I will get the pitch and olive oil here, but the sulfur you will find in the fuller’s shed with the laundry.” When he scowled at her, she bit her lip to keep the tart remark back and closed her eyes, taking a long breath to calm her heart. The soldier could be back at any moment. “There is a shed at the side of the villa. Inside you will find baskets full of yellow powder, sulfur. They use it to whiten the wool.”

“I know bitumen. We use it on the ship to seal cracks, but I doubt this marble home has any.”

“There is another large shed at the back. You should find a mound of it at the back rendered down to almost powder. The slaves use it to seal baskets to make them hold liquid goods. I will need at least a basketful of the sulfur and the same amount of the bitumen. Please hurry, Hasani. It is almost dark.”

He nodded to her briefly and left by the back door.

Digging inside one of the cupboards, Phaedra pulled out a large amphora of olive oil from the very back. She removed the cork, and the heady smell of fermentation made her eyes water. She replaced the cork and tucked the heavy jar under her arm then moved to the pantry.

At first, she was certain she would never find enough pitch to do what she wanted. Then it dawned on her; some wines were sealed with pine pitch, but she was not certain if the house would have any. Retsina was nearly non-existent on Britannia, but here it was plentiful. She just could not remember if Thrasea drank it.

Tearing the pantry apart shelf by shelf, frustration made her reckless. Almost ready to give up, something caught her eye: an old lopsided basket with a soiled piece of linen thrown on top of it haphazardly. Under the linen cloth was a treasure; at least two armloads of pitch caps, ragged, some torn, others smashed, stared up at her. She quickly threw the amphora on top of the basket and hauled it up. Struggling she made her way out to the kitchen.

Hasani came through the door with two bundles tied to his back. When he dropped them on the counter, a vague smell of fire permeated the room.

“Is this enough?” he asked brushing the dirt from his hands.

“Yes.” Phaedra dropped the basket next to the bundles.

“It is not safe here, little bird. How much room do you need?”

“Very little. A long table would do it.”

“I think I know a place.” He tied the bags together, threw them over his shoulder and grabbed the basket. “Can you manage the amphora?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then follow me. We have to hurry.”

It took them a good half hour to make their way through the darkening streets of Rome. When they finally arrived at a squat old warehouse, Phaedra ached everywhere. The building was less than a block from the Circus, and Hasani let them in.

It was black inside, and he had to light a torch. He disappeared into the darkness, and all Phaedra could hear was the spark of the flint. When the torch caught, it illuminated huge piles, some stacked neatly with amphora and others thrown together without care. The piles consisted of every kind of object she could imagine, from jeweled cases to whole chariots tipped on their sides.

At the center was a large table filled with wax tablets. Hasani scooted over to the table and dropped his bags, then swiftly swept the tablets into his arms in one fluid motion.

“What is this place?” Phaedra moved slowly to the table trying to take in everything. The treasure rolled away from her in great massive mountains.

Dumping the tablets discretely onto one of the back piles, Hasani returned wiping his hands on a rag. “This is my storage chamber, where I keep goods.” He scanned the piles. “So what do you need from me?”

Phaedra started dumping the contents of the bags onto the table separating each substance into its own pile, careful not to mix them. “I will need a wick,” she held out her hands, “about this long, with no breaks in it.”

“I have nothing like that here, princess,” he said lifting one eyebrow.

“No, but a candle maker will have it. Is there one close by?”

Hasani shrugged. “Close enough, but the market will be closed.”

“You are a pirate… break in!”

He raised his brows at her. “As you wish, my lady. It will not take me long.”

“Good.” She hauled the basket up on the table and started sorting through the pine pitch caps to find ones that would do for her purpose. “While you are out, I need a ball of strong twine and a stack of linen cut into one foot squares, about a half dozen of them. Can you manage that?”

He bowed low and came up to catch her hand and kiss it. “For you, the moon.” He kissed it a second time before heading for the door.

“Hasani?” He stopped and turned. A surge of guilt and fear welled up inside her. “This
will
work, yes?”

“If your magic is sound, my beautiful witch, it should work like a charm.” He laughed at his pun.

“Hurry, please,” she said. “The fight will start in less than an hour.”

“I will fly if I have to.” With that, he disappeared into the night.

Phaedra turned back to her work plucking resin from the basket and kneading each piece with her hands to soften it. This was going to take time, time she did not think she had, but she would hurry. Althea’s voice screeched through her head.
Child, slow down! Do you want to burn the place down?
Phaedra was not even certain of the exact measurements, relying on a decades old memory of a child who had done nothing more of the process at the time than softening the pitch. There was nothing she could do about it. Whatever she could put together would have to do. Bahar and Thane’s lives depended on it. The thought turned her blood to water.

Chapter XL

Thane stared between the bars lining the arena walls. The strain settling into his face was one thing familiar to him. There were others: the dressing, the parade, the fight. He focused on those things as he always did before the games. It took discipline to keep his mind from his failure. When Phaedra’s face flashed behind his eyes, he balled his fists until the nails squeezed blood in droplets onto the sand at his feet.

A stout slave with a long gash of a scar disfiguring his face laced the new sandals onto Thane’s feet and legs. He pulled the thongs tight, as hard as he could; a loose pair of sandals could kill a man on the sand. A hundred bumps from the backs of the corks screwed into the soles of the sandals throbbed against Thane’s toes and heels. It was as familiar as the air in his lungs.

Another slave wrapped a clean loincloth around his naked body. They had washed him when he arrived, but he hardly noticed. Shock draped him in warm tendrils of apathy, making everything as gray as rain. He did not flinch when the slave yanked the loincloth up hard at the back in the traditional way.

Two gladiators approached him, each carrying the uniform of his station: the
ocrea
, the
manica
, the scutum, the
balteus
and the
gladius
. The clothes of a slave, the weapons of a warrior.

The first gladiator to approach him was an Ethiopian; he wore the tribal badge that distinguished him from the others. His black eyes and face focused on his chore only.

Thane lifted his arms from his side and allowed the man to tie the
manica
in place with strands of toughened leather. His hands were sure, swift and strong. When he finished, Thane’s arm went numb quickly, as it should. It would loosen during battle.

The second man moved to Thane’s left leg where he wrapped a pad of linen and tied it with long leather straps that doubled upon themselves and cinched the linen against his skin. Then he took a hammered piece of bronze, the
ocrea
, and secured it to Thane’s leg just below the knee. Out of habit, Thane flexed his knee several times to make certain the fit was good. After a slight adjustment, he nodded at the gladiator who stood. When they tied the long thickly studded
balteus
around his waist and cinched it tight, it rustled around his hips and front, protecting his privates. Unlike the Egyptian finery Hasani had provided, the Roman accoutrements Thane now wore wrapped him in familiarity. He was home.