Broken Chariots Page 5
“Pistrus doesn’t fight,” Ursa said.
“No, and I don’t race.”
“Not anymore,” Belbus said, the hint of a challenge in his voice.
Leontius narrowed his eyes. “Not anymore, no. It’s a sport for rich boys. Patricians and senators’ sons and the like. I grew weary of such things.”
“And fighting in the arena is... what?”
Leontius touched his heart, taking pity on Belbus for his ignorance.
“My friend, it is the sport of the people.”
He then spread his arms wide as if to encompass all of Rome, which he almost did.
“Are you trying to tell me that plebeians don’t enjoy watching the races?”
“That’s not what I am saying at all. Of course people come to watch the races. If you hitched up your tunic and took a shit on the ground in front of them, they’d watch that too...”
“I’m not so sure they would,” Ursa said, leaning back ever so slightly.
“My point is...” Leontius continued. “The arena does not discriminate. It welcomes all, free and slave alike. You don’t need your daddy to buy you a team of horses or a chariot. You don’t even need to know how to drive one. You come into the arena with only yourself, and if you’re lucky, you leave with only yourself.”
“And your weapons,” Belbus said.
“And your armour,” added Ursa.
Leontius rolled his eyes. “Yes, you have your weapons and your armour...”
“Which cost money,” Ursa reminded him.
“Not as much as a horse,” Leontius shot back. “Besides, if you are a slave, they give you your weapons and armour. Then, with courage and skill and - I grant you - a strong stomach, you can make yourself into a champion. You can earn your freedom.”
“But not you,” Belbus said, turning his cup between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re a free man.”
Growing irritated, Leontius leaned forward, stabbing a mighty index finger into the table so hard Ursa thought he might break it.
“Yes, I am a free man. I walk into the arena of my own free will.”
Ursa narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
Leontius had just taken a sip of wine and gestured down the hall while he swallowed, as if the answer spoke for itself.
“Glory,” he said. “I wasn’t paying those women out there. They just want to bed me. I walk into any room in this city, women want to bed me. Men buy me drinks everywhere I go. I haven’t paid for a drink in years.”
Belbus said, “You haven’t paid for a lot of things in years.”
Leontius’ eyes grew cold. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
At that moment, Lucia and the barmaid from the kitchen entered the room carrying trays. One of bread, one of assorted meats and cheeses, one of olives and figs and pomegranates. Ursa avoided looking at the barmaid as she set her tray down on the table, as well as a little cruse of olive oil beside the bread.
“That looks wonderful, Lucia. Thank you.” Belbus produced another coin and handed it to her. “For your trouble.”
Ursa saw the landlady try to mask her excitement, and generally fail in the attempt. Lucia leaned down to whisper in Belbus’ ear.
“No trouble at all, honey. But if you’re looking for trouble, this’ll get you more than a meal.”
Ursa and Leontius exchanged a surprised glance. Belbus pursed his lips in consideration.
He looked at her over his shoulder. “Depends what kind of trouble it is.”
“Depends what kind you’re looking for.”
Belbus arched an eyebrow. “Duly noted.”
She winked at him, then stood. “Enjoy the food.”
Lucia headed for the door. The barmaid was waiting to follow her out. As Ursa turned to watch Lucia leave, she made eye contact with the barmaid, who nervously glanced away and departed.
Ursa rolled her eyes. Turned back to the table.
“That was subtle,” she muttered.
Leontius beamed. “Lucia’s a lot of things, but subtle isn’t one of them. If she doesn’t like you, you’ll know about it. If she does, well...”
He drank.
Belbus chuckled. Bit into a fig. “I think we’re getting into pay-to-play territory again here, Leontius. Eat something. We have to get you sober.”
Leontius surveyed the food. “I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care. Eat.”
He sighed. Reached for a loaf of bread. Tore it in half.
Leontius went on: “I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of things in this tavern. She doesn’t have a problem with working girls - clearly - but she isn’t one of them. Maybe she likes that paranoid, squirrelly thing you’ve got going on.”
Belbus paused mid-bite. Frowned. With a full mouth, he said, “Squirrelly?”
Leontius dipped a huge chunk of bread in olive oil. Ate. Breathed through his nose while he chewed. His eyes bulged a little, surprised at how good it was, or how hungry he was.
It went that way sometimes, Ursa thought. Action preceding motivation, rather than the other way around, as people often suspected.
Belbus turned to Ursa for confirmation about Leontius’ ‘squirrelly’ comment, but she quickly busied herself dipping a cut of meat in olive oil and dropping it into her mouth from above.
As she tilted her face back down, chewing, Ursa saw that she’d inadvertently become the centre of attention. Belbus and Leontius stared openly at her apparently disgraceful violation of dining etiquette.
“Animal,” Belbus said. “Barbarian. Shame on you.”
“We’re eating in a brothel,” Ursa said. “I think all bets are off.”
Leontius shrugged, as if to say, “Fair enough.”
Ursa dipped another slice of meat in oil and repeated the process. “Besides, I’m hungover.”
Leontius raised his cup to her and winked. “I’ll be joining you shortly.”
He drank.
Belbus joined him in drinking. “What the hell was I talking about? That landlady got me off track.” He popped an olive into his mouth. Chewed. Thought deeply. Had nothing.
Ursa turned slowly from awaiting whatever Belbus was working on, and redirected her attention to the strapping gladiator across from her.
“So... you prefer gladiatorial combat because it’s more democratic?” Ursa said. “Am I reading that right? Very Greek of you, I must say.”
He huffed, tired of defending his life choices to a complete stranger.
“Why do they not make slaves chariot drivers, huh? Because the price of entry is too high. Because not everyone has the privilege of being able to even see if chariot driving is something they might excel at.”
“I could spin it the other way,” Belbus said. He coughed, choking on an olive. The bookie had tried to speak too quickly after swallowing; so quickly, in fact, that it was technically mid-swallow. They waited for him to compose himself. When he had, he nodded to them gratefully for their patience, and went on: “I could say that anyone can fight, but it takes a special kind of man to race a chariot.”
The muscle governing Leontius’ right nostril pulled his upper lip into a sneer. “Twist my words all you want, charlatan. You know I’m right. Chariot racing takes skill, I’ll grant you that. But you only get that skill with a lot of money behind you.”
“Like you did.”
The gladiator stopped dead.
Belbus pushed a little further: “Remind me, how did you get into the circus anyway? Originally?”
Leontius ground his teeth and glared at the bookie.
The bookie didn’t back down. “Who bought you that chariot and those horses and all those private lessons? Be honest with yourself, Leontius. You can hide behind your egalitarian values all you want, but the reason you stick to the arena is because that’s where you’re top dog. The reason you left the circus in the first place is because you couldn’t cut it there. People don’t remember it now, but you were a promising young charioteer. At least until Pistrus came along...”
“No, Leontius. The only way my mouth stays shut is if you shut it for me.”
“That can be arranged.” He said it slowly, through gritted teeth.
Belbus stared back at him, unblinking. Leontius’ gaze faltered.
“Why me?” he said, and truly seemed to mean it.
Ursa remembered asking Belbus that same question when they were laying it all out. They were back at his office and they were drinking and he was pacing and she was sitting and she was asking him, “Why Leontius?”
“Why Leontius?” he was saying. “Why Leontius? I’ll tell you why Leontius. Because Leontius has got an axe to grind. Because he’s desperate. Because he’s hungry. Because he’s got everything to lose and everything to gain. Most importantly, because he can.”
“You believe that?” Ursa sounded doubtful.
Belbus stopped. Looked at her.
“He hasn’t raced in a long time. Why don’t we go after Gaius? Or even Scorpus?”
Belbus scoffed, continued pacing. He drank from the cup of wine he was holding.
“Gaius and Scorpus have too much to lose and not enough to gain. Plus, they actually stand a chance of winning. Not a good chance, but a chance. We need someone to tilt the odds. Someone to really come out of fucking nowhere and win this thing.”
“What we need is someone that one of the factions will take on,” Ursa said.
“That’s true. That’s very true. That’s why Leontius is our best play. He’s got the novelty factor. People will flock to the circus to see his comeback. Mark my words, the factions will be fighting each other for who gets him. The problem won’t be begging, it’ll be choosing.”
“Who are you thinking? The Reds?”
Belbus squinted his good eye and gave a dubious, “Mmm.”
“The Greens?”
“Maybe. They’ve got Scorpus, but maybe.”
“Well, the Blues have Gaius, and I know you don’t mean the Whites.”
Belbus pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. He was considering it.
“Maybe the Whites.”
Ursa stared at him like he was insane. “Pistrus drives for the Whites.”
Belbus was warming to the idea. A mischievous little smirk had crept onto his face. “That would really stick it to him, wouldn’t it?”
“Who? Pistrus?”
“Yeah.” Belbus was almost salivating now. “Being taken out by someone on his own team.”
Ursa furrowed her brow. “What’s this got to do with sticking it to Pistrus?”
Belbus snapped out of it. “You’re right. We’ll circle back to that. Let’s talk kidnapping...”
Leontius brought Belbus back to the present when he said, “Why not go to Gaius, or even Scorpus? I’m rusty. I haven’t raced in...”
“I don’t trust Gaius or Scorpus. They won’t keep their mouths shut.”
Leontius pressed his tongue against his teeth and sucked sharply through the gap.
“Tell me this isn’t personal,” he said. “Tell me this has nothing to do with that limp and where you got it. Tell me it’s got nothing to do with those pills you gulp down every hour. Don’t think I don’t notice.”
Ursa’s head snapped to Belbus, a question in her eyes. What was Leontius talking about?
Belbus pursed his lips tight at the gladiator. She got the feeling that if he didn’t, his teeth would bare themselves like a dog’s.
“It doesn’t,” was all he said. “It’s not personal.”
“Bullshit.” Leontius leaned closer on a forearm that took about half the width of the table. “You can act like you’re above it all, but I know you. I know what you are.”
“What’s he talking about, Belbus?” Ursa said, genuinely curious.
Her genuine curiosity seemed genuinely infectious, for now Leontius was the one intrigued. “She doesn’t know?”
Belbus didn’t meet her eye. “She doesn’t need to know.”
“You never told her?”
“She never asked.”
“I did so!” Ursa slapped both palms on the table, rippling the wine and wobbling the oil. “Like a hundred times, I asked!”
Belbus shrugged, spat an olive pip onto the floor.
“If it bears on what we’re doing, I need to know,” Ursa said, searching the side of his face.
The bookie groaned in frustration. Shook his head. Tried to play if off with a shrug. “I used to race.”
Leontius snorted at the understatement. “You used to race like I used to race, only you raced harder. Harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. Too hard.”
Belbus didn’t blink.
“People don’t get up from what you did,” Leontius said, a tremor in his voice between awe and fear. “You wanna know why I got out? It’s not because the arena’s a walk in the gardens.” He pointed at Belbus. “That’s why. Sure, maybe I wasn’t as good as Pistrus, but a man can make a good living coming in second.” He paused again. “But not if he gets slammed against a wall and his chariot turns to kindling and all four of his horses land on top of him.”
Belbus closed his good eye, and presumably his bad one too. Ursa winced. She could almost hear the distressed whinnying of horses that must have been resounding in his ears. The crunching of bone. The splintering of wood.
“Jove...” she breathed. “That’s what happened to you? That’s why you...”
When the bookie opened his eye again, it shone wetly in the light of the oil lamp, catching the fire like a lake at sunset. Ghosts swimming in the water.
He said nothing.
“I don’t understand,” Ursa said. “Why would you want revenge for that? Against who? Against...”
Then it dawned on her, and Leontius saw it dawn on her.
“Because Pistrus was the motherfucker who slammed him into that wall.”
Ursa looked down at the table, then up at Belbus, her face full of sympathy. “Why didn’t you...”
“I don’t want your fucking pity, Ursa. Spend it on him. He’s the one who needs it.”
She flinched at the remark.
“I don’t need pity,” Leontius said. “What do I need pity for?”
The bookie didn’t answer. Then it hit him. His whole face lit up, suddenly ecstatic.
“Ah, yes! Fucking finally!”
Ursa jumped in fright. Leontius leaned back like Belbus had just drawn a knife.
“What?!” Ursa said, hand over her racing heart.
“I know what I was saying.”
“When?”
“Before! Before I got distracted by the landlady.”
They both waited expectantly. Nothing came.
“And?” Ursa prodded.
Belbus was so excited he forgot to speak. “Oh! Right! Well, um...”
His good eye flitted side to side, like he was hunting the thought.
“No, no, no... It was right there. I had it on the tip of my... Jove, it’s slipping away. It’s slipping... No! I’ve got it!” He paused for dramatic effect, then continued: “You know damn well what it means.”
He was talking to Leontius, suddenly stern again. Leontius stared at him blankly.
“Remember, you were saying, ‘I haven’t paid for a drink in years.’ And I said, ‘You haven’t paid for a lot of things in years.’ Then the landlady serendipitously arrived with a meal you also didn’t pay for, and offered me sex that I’m not sure I paid for...”
“Oh, right,” Leontius said, remembering.
The gladiator decided to try Ursa’s dipping-the-meat-in-olive-oil thing. As he dunked the hunk of flesh, Ursa had a flash of Pistrus dunking the child. She jolted out of the memory a split-second later. Leontius was nodding to her in approval as he chewed, pleasantly surprised. She forced a smile to cover herself. Gave a humble nod in return.
Belbus actively ignored the behaviour. “So we’re all caught up then?”
The gladiator chuckled. “We sure are.”
>
“Good, because this isn’t a laughing matter, Leontius. I’m a bookie. You think I don’t know the kind of people you owe money to?”
Leontius paused mid-chew. He swallowed, less out of necessity and more out of dread.
He tried to play it off. “So what?”
“So... some might think that the fact of you not paying for women or wine would leave you in a reasonable financial position, considering your status as a champion gladiator.”
Leontius said nothing. Knew what he was getting at.
“But they don’t know about your Achilles’ Heel, do they?”
The gladiator ran his tongue across his teeth on the inside of his mouth.
“What Achilles’ Heel?” Ursa said.
“His one weak point,” Belbus explained. “The chink in his armour. The lone vulnerability in all those muscles.”
Leontius was breathing a little quicker now.
Belbus cleared a space on the table, then reached into his cloak and pulled out a rolled-up parchment. He unfurled the scroll, laid it out flat. Weighed the ends down with cups and the little cruse of olive oil.
Ursa squinted at what appeared to be a very lifelike sketch of a human heel, from the middle of the arch of the foot to just above the ankle.
“Is that... a heel?” she said, then got the joke. “It’s an actual Achilles’ Heel?”
Belbus nodded. “It is indeed. Our friend Leontius here has invested his entire life savings and then some into this heel.”
“Not just any heel!” the gladiator snapped.
Ursa was still looking at the parchment, tilting her head as if a different angle might bear answers. An arrow had penetrated the heel beneath the ankle bone and was stuck at an angle about halfway down the length of its shaft.
“It’s a... statue?” she guessed.
Leontius sighed.
Belbus jumped in. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“What’s it made of that it would cost so much? It’s not the actual heel of Achilles, is it?”
“No.” Belbus shook his head. “Statue is closer to the mark. It’s not what it’s made of that’s the issue. It’s the size.”
Ursa squinted harder in the dim light. It was only now that she noticed a detail which had previously eluded her. Now, it practically jumped out and slapped her in the face.