Today, however, I could not find the enjoyment in it. There was too much confusion swirling through me, worries about my place in the ludus, about the renewed threat of Bavarius, about the forbidden feelings that I had for Christus.
“The gods have naught to do with it. I wished to show you something, Lilia. Something very important.” The dominus strode ahead of me, and I had no choice but to follow. I did, and felt my palms begin to dampen against the dryness of my subligaculum. As always, it irritated some small part of me that, no matter how it was phrased, I did not have any choice but to follow along with my dominus’ wishes. No matter how many times I reminded myself that this was my life, that nothing about it would change, there would always be a fraction of my soul that did not enjoy the lack of freedom.
Since this was indeed my life, and because I could have had it much worse, I tamped down the feeling, as I was always forced to.
Even through my irritation, I noticed that the dominus cast a look back my way, one to check on my well-being. This gave me pause, for no matter that I was a pet to him, I was still a slave, and my well-being not generally at the top of his thoughts.
What did he need to show me? The weight in my belly was a warning that whatever it was, it would not bode well for my future.
My heart skittered in my chest, my blood fizzing hot and fast.
Did he somehow know about my tryst with Christus the night before? Did he not approve? It occurred to me that I did not know my dominus’ thoughts on the matter of relations between his slaves—relations not ordered by his hand, for the pleasures of others.
I did not know how it was with the slaves in the house above the ludus, but I was the only woman among the gladiators, and while I had heard of men in ludi becoming involved with one another, never in my years there had I witnessed such a relationship, myself.
Casting an uneasy glance back down the path toward the house, I swallowed around a thick mouthful of anxiety.
I could plead ignorance, I supposed. But that would not be honest, and I had always tried to live my life by the virtue, even when it might have been easier for me to do otherwise.
The walk to the large market near the ludus was short and silent, the tension as thick as honey but not nearly as sweet. I stayed close behind my dominus, doing my very best to appear an obedient, docile slave.
The dominus seemed troubled as he bought a jug of cheap wine from the first vendor that he saw without checking for quality or attempting to bargain. Though he had no particular talent for bartering, it was a very strange thing in the Roman marketplace, to pay the price asked without question. Vendors always first named a price that was much higher than an item was worth, with the expectation of an argument.
My nerves unable to take more, I took the jug from my dominus’ hands before he could give it to me to carry. I clutched it tightly in my sweaty hands. The man had never before offered to carry anything for me, for that was why he owned slaves, after all, and incessant training meant that I was far stronger than him, at any rate. I saw him watching me struggle to get a grip on the jar that was too large around for my arms, and uttered an exclamation of surprise when he tried to take it from me.
Without thinking, I clutched tighter. “I will carry it for you, Dominus.” Though the jug was too large for me to carry comfortably, I could do it.
I wondered, not for the first time, how much attention the man paid to the goings-on in the ludus beneath his feet. Did he know that Bavarius was again challenging me? Did he think me weak, a woman who could not hold her place among men?
I was rewarded for my comment with a glare that had me loosening my grip on the wine instantly. My master did not look pleased.
“You would argue?” I shook my head to reply, abashed. The dominus took the jug from me and held it to his side, fingers looped through the handle. He leaned sharply to one side, and it would have been comical to see, had I not been wondering why he was insisting on carrying the jug himself.
As I looked at him, I saw a hint of . . . surely that could not be pity? Patricians did not pity slaves, no matter how favored they were.
“Let us walk this way.” I was startled yet again when the dominus grasped my arm. It was not common for a master to touch his slave, not unless it was to administer a beating, or for sex. He pulled me between the stalls of a man selling mottled quinces and another vendor with bolts of white wool. He nearly dropped the cumbersome jug of wine when jostled by one of a parade of slaves carrying an ornate litter.
The scarlet silk curtains of the litter parted with the movement, and I caught a quick glimpse of the man inside. I had never seen his face, but the number of slaves that accompanied him, and the ornate decoration of his litter and his clothing, told me that he was someone very important in the Roman Empire.