Uptown Local and Other Interventions (3 page)

“How much do you want?” she said, emerging from the back of the stall. As usual, Lucius wondered how so round a woman could be invisible in so small a space.

“Thirty ells. On the Master’s account—”

“Lucky you. Thirty is what I’ve got,” Milla said. “Take it. I’ll send the tally sticks around later.”

She rolled up the silk and loaded it into Lucius’s arms. He staggered under the weight, but didn’t care: as he made his way back out through the Forum, Lucius had the strangest feeling that his luck had changed. Even in the dark warren of the tunnels, some golden outside light seemed to have followed him in—even when he turned the last corner and found Mancipuer examining the badly-done paint job on a snorting pygmy elephant.

“See, master!” Catharis said. “I told you. He didn’t even start for the stall until I went out and told him to get moving. And now he’s back with some shoddy—”

“Thirty ells of crimson, sir,” Lucius said, bringing the bolt over for Mancipuer to see. “Just the kind you wanted.”

Scowling, Mancipuer reached out to finger the fabric—then turned that scowl back on Catharis. “I don’t mind if he takes the time to do the work right,” he said. “Unlike some people, in so much in a rush to get done with our own work that we botch it. Lucius, you and Makron start getting that stuff stretched out on the frames he just built. Afterwards you can have the afternoon to yourself. As for you—” he gave Catharis a clout upside the head, “scrub this poor creature off and start over. We’ve four more to do.”

“Yes, master,” Catharis said humbly, but when Mancipuer’s back was turned he shot a furious glare at Lucius. Lucius paid no attention, but went to help old Makron with the silk. He did the next hour’s work in a half-dream, feeling the little bag against his chest, and thinking again and again,
I talked to
Hilarus…!

As soon as he was done, Lucius ran off before Mancipuer could change his mind. As he went, feeling the bag thump against his chest, the thought came to him, staggering. He had money.

He could buy the
murmillo
!

Lucius stopped and leaned against an archway, gulping, almost in shock at the thought of actually
spending
the one piece of money he had ever owned. But at the same time…

…the
murmillo
!

He took a breath so deep it felt to be worth about three, and made his way to the center aisle, to Strabo’s stall. A few feet away he stopped, as he always did, to just stare at the rows of figures. They came in all kinds and sizes—Thracians with their typical curved
sica
swords;
retiarius
netmen with tridents;
secutor
“chasers” in egg-shaped helmets… And finally Lucius’s favorites, the
murmillones
with their big shields and crested, cowl-brimmed helmets.

All the figures came in several models and price ranges. The collectors’ editions, done in silvered or even gilt iron with bronze accessories, were intended for the high-end market. Then came the wooden ones, carved with helmets that could open and close; the figures had mobile jointed arms, and hands socketed to take small bronze swords. Once you had the basic figure, you could buy clip-on armor for it, and have it decorated with designs like your favorite fighter. The cheapest ones were plain terracotta; nothing moved, and they were fragile, but a clever workman could paint on the armor and even do a sketchy version of your favorite gladiator’s face under the visor of the open helmet.

For Lucius, even the pottery
murmillo
had been an impossible dream. But now he could even afford one of the metal ones
. And still get change back from the
denarius
!

Lucius took a deep breath and stepped up to the slab. Strabo turned and looked down, a long way down, at Lucius  He was tall and thin and gray-haired, with watery pale eyes that looked straight through you.

“Huh,” he said. “You.” And he started to turn away.

“No, wait!”

Strabo wasn’t a mean-looking man, but he had a face in which every deep-creased line seemed to say
Don’t waste my time.
“Why? What if a paying customer comes along?”

Lucius looked up and down the aisle, and Strabo followed his glance. No one showed the slightest sign of coming near them. “All right,” Strabo said resignedly. “You’re ‘just looking’, right? At the
murmillo
again?”

He reached for one of the plain pottery ones and set it right in front of Lucius’s nose. “It’s just the same as the last time…”

“Not that one,” Lucius said, reaching into the collar of his tunic to fish out his amulet-bag. “One of the wooden ones.”

Strabo opened his mouth. Before he could say a word, Lucius pushed the
denarius
at him.

“How’d you come by money like that all of a sudden?”

“A lady gave it to me.”

“Oh really.” Strabo oozed disbelief.

 “The lady,” said Lucius, “who came out after Hilarus.”

The watery eyes opened wider. “Oh
really
,” he said again, but this time the tone was different. He moved the terracotta
murmillo
back to its place and brought forward one of the olive-wood ones. Lucius took it in his hands and examined it carefully. The carving was good, the fighter’s stance very natural. There was a nick in the left upper thigh where the carver’s knife had slipped, but the damage was sanded down and otherwise it was perfect. Lucius handed it back. “That’ll do.”

“How do you want it?” Strabo said. “Parchment armor?”

“Bronze,” Lucius said. He might never be able to afford his own action figure again: he was going to do this right.

“Wooden sword?”

“Iron.”

“All right,” Strabo said. He started rummaging among the paintpots and tools on the shelf behind him.

“…Who was she?” Lucius said after a moment.

“With that many slaves, and sitting near the Emperor? Someone important.” He picked through the wicker trays under the slabs until he found a short straight sword about the length of his little finger. “But it’s the kind of thing you won’t ask anybody else about, if you’re smart…”

Lucius watched carefully as Strabo wrapped quilted muslin around the wooden figure’s upper arm, then tied the metal arm-guard on top with linen thread. He checked to make sure everything still moved, and plugged the little iron blade into the hole in its clenched fist. “Watch out for this,” he said. “It’s soft, it’ll bend. You break it, you don’t get a replacement.”

“I won’t break it,”

The kilt and broad belt went on, padding for the legs and a pair of greaves secured with more linen thread, and finally the tall Army-pattern shield. Strabo picked up the helmet, checking that the faceplate grille went up and down correctly, then looked at the plain crest. “What color?”

Lucius meant to say, “White and gold,” but a memory of the lady’s rose-red veil stopped him. “Make it red,” he said.

Strabo dipped the brush in a nearby paint-pot and a moment later the crest was scarlet with terra-cotta and gesso paint. Two tiny feathers went into the sockets either side. Then he smiled, pointed the brush carefully with his fingers and painted a garland of roses above the brim of the helmet. Not an unusual decoration, and calculated to catch the ladies’ eyes.

Lucius grinned. Strabo put the brush down and picked up a finer one from a pot of lampblack-ink, lifting the helmet off again. The figure’s face underneath it was blank, oval, a ridge running down the middle of its front. With surprising speed Strabo painted on a pair of eyes, the shadow of a nose, a stroke of mouth. He held the figurine away, admiring it: then swung the visor down and put the figure on the slab in front of Lucius. “Satisfied?”

“He’s perfect.”

“Then that’ll be six
minae
.”

“Done.”

Strabo made the change and counted it out, then watched Lucius put it away rather mechanically. He rooted around under the slab for a moment, produced a piece of plain soft cloth and wrapped it around the little gladiator. “Go on, boy.” He said it gently, not the way people usually said ‘boy’ when they were using it as just another way to say ‘slave’. “Go put him somewhere safe.”

Lucius nodded. Still in something of a daze, he took the wrapped-up
murmillo
and headed off to his sleep-space to hide it away. Once there he watched all around to make sure no one saw him: then slipped in, unrolled his blanket, and tucked the
murmillo
alongside his lamp and his gods. “I’ll see you later…” he whispered, and got out fast.

Once out in the center aisle again, he paused and wondered what to do. He really wanted to spend the afternoon playing with the
murmillo
, but to do that in private, he’d have to get more lamp oil, and slaves weren’t allowed any until after dark.

Lucius wandered out into the sunlight again. People were coming in for the afternoon session, so he dawdled out into the Forum again, sheltering under one of the arcades, and considered buying himself a treat. There were people selling sausages and sweets out here; cheeses and fruits and honey-cakes, all kinds of wonders that he would never taste.
The kind of thing that Lady must eat all day…

But then he caught a glimpse of white columns through the Forum stalls, and felt a brief odd pang of guilt as he remembered Hilarus saying,
You should thank Queen Venus…

Lucius thought about that… then dodged and scampered up the busy Forum, right to the far end of the plaza and a largish stall hung with all kinds and sizes of cages. At the sight of him, the stallholder, a fat lady in a big stained yellow
palla
, came straight out to chase him off. But Lucius knew what to do. He held up his coin and waited till she saw it.

“Won’t get much for that,” the woman said.

“Don’t need much,” Lucius pointed at one of the smallest cages.

The woman sniffed and unhooked it from the cord where it hung. “One
sestercius
…”

“
How
much…?” said Lucius, appalled. Then he shrugged. If the goddess had seen fit to get him a whole
denarius
, then this was her fair cut. He handed it over. The stallholder dropped the coin on her little scale and watched suspiciously until the pans leveled out before giving him the caged, squawking sparrow.

Lucius took it and ran past the end of the Forum, up the steps of Venus’s temple. Leaning against one of the big open doors was a slightly pear-shaped priestess in white frock and rose-colored
palla
, with a jauntily skewed garland of somewhat wilted roses on her head.

Lucius handed her the cage. The priestess took it and looked inside. “With prayer, or without?” she said.

“With, please,” Lucius said. “A thank-offering.”

“Ten
minae
,” the priestess said, and smiled crookedly. “Aren’t you a little young to be thanking Her for favors?”

“Not when I owe Her one,” Lucius said, and passed over the money.

The priestess pocketed it. “Whatever. Thank you Lady Venus Queen of the Loves and Passions of Men for Gracious Kindness shown to this your Servant who by this Token thanks Thee,” she said, and pulled the cage door open. The sparrow shot out, pooping on the priestess as it went, and fluttered straight back toward the marketplace. The priestess rolled her eyes and walked off, resignedly wiping herself with her sleeve.

Lucius headed back into the shadows of the Colosseum. In the evening there was more work to do, but everything went by more quickly than he could have believed, because of what was waiting in his sleep-space. When he finally got there, the building had gone quiet around him, all the spectators gone, the restaurants emptying, the brothels operating with their doors shut. Lucius knelt by the bedroll, put down his lamp—refilled with oil at Delia’s—and unrolled his blanket.

There was the
murmillo
, just as he had left him. Lucius piled up the blanket against his doorway in such a way that it shut most of the lamp’s light in. And then, on the hard stone floor, he played. Hardly above a whisper, Lucius made all the sounds of a day’s Games: the crowd’s roar, the cries of the bookies, the repeaters’ announcements, the stats of the champion and the challenger.

Then the featured fight began, and he worked the
murmillo
’s sword arm up and down more times than he could count, beating the iron of the sword against imagination’s armor until the inside of his mind rang with it. On hands and knees, grinning in triumph, he made the
murmillo
chase the unfortunate challenger—some poor five-fight Thracian—up and down the length of a shadowy sleep-space which had become the sunlit arena oval. Lucius played until he could barely see, until he started falling asleep where  he sat. Then ever so carefully he laid the action figure down, wrapped in a fold of his blanket, and then got ready to say his prayers.

No Roman would have called a place home without his household gods. Lucius had only two, carved clumsily from scrap wood he’d found. One was Mars—that made sense since the Colosseum was His house—though Lucius didn’t pray to him too often, since he was reported to have a  temper and you wouldn’t want to get on His nerves. The other was a Venus that a Gaulish slave had made for him a year or so ago, a little woman-shape like Milla the cloth-seller, one-third bosom and two-thirds hips, but still strangely graceful. “The Lady of the Caves,” the Gaul had called her: “the Lady of the tunnels and holes and dark places underneath: Venus Cloacina…”

 
Carefully Lucius put the lamp down in front of the little figures, and he raised his hands to pray. “Thanks again,” he said. “This is the best thing I’ve ever had. Please take care of the nice lady who gave me the money. I’ll take good care of the
murmillo
. I promise.”

Then Lucius lay down and rolled himself in the rest of the blanket, and blew out the lamp. He put a hand out to the rolled-up
murmillo
, let out a breath, and, smiling, fell asleep.

*

So,
he heard someone say in the night: probably someone going home late from the nearby brothel.
Do I win?

You win,
said another voice, more amused than annoyed.
I admit it.