Chapter XXIX
XXIX
FEW THINGS REQUIRED PERFECT BALANCE. Ballast in ships, the amount of rosemary sprinkled over a fleshy sea bass, and the amount of opium to numb pain without causing death.
Felix hunched over his scale and held his breath as he rubbed a pinch of fine powder between his thumb and forefinger, adding it to the tiny mountain growing on the scale pan. The fulcrum twitched.
He froze, eyeing the scale a moment longer. There. Perfect balance.
He straightened and wiped the excess powder from his fingers, measurements complete.
Now all that was left was to combine the mountain of various colored herbs and powders into a smooth mixture and refill the jar of pain-relieving powder.
He’d been able to quell Jovan’s demands for enhancing potions by administering small doses of this mild pain reliever.
It helped ease sore muscles and would not leave them writhing in the throes of withdrawal when they stopped it.
The clinic door burst open. Felix whirled, elbow snagging the arm of the scale.
He flailed to catch it and sent an empty jar crashing to the floor.
Pottery exploded across the tiles, skipping and skittering toward a pair of bare feet.
Adel stormed inside, ludus-issued tunic clinging to still-wet skin.
“Where did you get that ring?” She held out her hand, fingers wiggling impatiently, as she stepped toward him. Water droplets splattered at her feet.
Felix rushed forward to stop her. “You’ll cut yourself on the jar—”
“I do not care about my feet,” she snapped, gripping his arm. “The ring. Let me see it.”
Her blue eyes were stitched to his, roiling with fear, confusion, and desperate hope. For all the anger that had tainted her words when she’d spoken of her atta, for all his failings, she feared for him. Hoped for him. Loved him.
“Felix?” Her breath seemed suspended, hanging on his answer, afraid to hear it. “Where did you get my atta’s ring?”
“Telemachus.”
Adel went as still as a freshly bathed person could be in December. Her whole body shook as she raised a hand to cover her mouth. “How—how do you . . .”
Felix twisted past her and rummaged through the cupboard for a blanket. She was right behind him when he turned, the closest she’d ever chosen to be—nonviolently, at least. He shook out the blanket and reached around her, settling it over her shoulders. “You’re dripping on my floor.”
“The ring.”
He went back to the counter and rummaged through a leather pouch, holding out the ring as he turned.
Tears rose in her eyes as she pinched the ring between her thumb and forefinger, turning it in the light. “It is his,” she murmured, and her face seemed to crumble. “He is dead, then.” She pressed the ring against her lips. “Atta, forgive me.”
Felix frowned. “He’s not dead, Adelgard. He’s looking for you.”
Her throat worked as she looked up at him and the following “Why?” was barely audible over the emotion fracturing across her face.
“Your atta is desperate to find you.”
A tear rolled over the edge of her eye, tracing her cheek.
“He gave Telemachus the ring in hopes he could use it to bring you home.”
“Telemachus is here?” Her eyes darted past him, as if Telemachus or her atta might materialize from the shadows. “He’s alive?”
“Yes. Searching for the captives, hoping to redeem them. Bring them home.”
“Home,” Adel repeated, and shook her head as if she could not believe such a thing still existed. “H—how do you know him, how—Ilona? Is he your friend? The liberator?”
“Yes, Telemachus and a host of monks are working to free and reunite your people. Are you going to be ill?” He gripped her arm and tugged her toward the operating table and the bowl beside it.
Adel sucked in a sharp breath and pressed her lips together, fighting for control.
“Hey,” Felix said gently, resisting the sudden urge to draw her close and steadying both hands on her shoulders instead. Her eyes jumped to his, but she did not shrug away from his touch. “You are not without friends, Adelgard. They are just not who you first supposed.”
She searched his eyes like a beggar might a trash heap, a wild and desperate hunt for hope among what had once been beautiful and was now decaying.
He took a breath. “I can get you out—”
The back door connecting the clinic to the infirmary opened and Sergius stepped inside, a basin of lancing needles and yellowed bandages in his hands. Felix dropped his hands from Adel’s shoulders and stepped back.
“These need to be cleaned,” Sergius said, and then noticed Adel. His face fell into a scowl. “That one again? Nothing but trouble. Jovan can’t get rid of the barbarians soon enough.”
“Sergius.”
“Good riddance, I say—”
“Sergius!”
“What does he mean, get rid of us?” Adel murmured.
Felix pinned the older medicus with a glare. “Nothing. He means nothing by it. Sergius is drunk, as always.”
“I am not—”
Felix grabbed the man’s shoulder and dragged him back through the infirmary door, slamming it shut behind them. “Unless you want the responsibility of inciting a rebellion, I suggest you keep your mouth shut.”
“You have no right to lecture me.” Sergius shoved off Felix’s grip, his expression hardening into volcanic rock. He stepped back and brushed at his tunic as if Felix had dirtied it. “I have seniority.”
“You’ll have no job at all if the gladiators revolt—”
“Do not threaten me, boy.” Sergius’s face quivered and broke. “Those barbarians killed my son. My only son, at Pollentia, and I . . .” He stopped and swallowed, smoothing his expression and lifting his chin. “The sooner they are dead, the better.”
Felix clasped his hands behind his back. “I am sorry for your loss, Sergius. Truly.”
Sergius sniffed in a way that bespoke disbelief rather than grief. “Not sorry enough. That Visigoth harlot has bewitched you. Anyone can see it. She’ll be the death of you.”
“Perhaps,” Felix placated. “But until then we have jobs to do.” He turned back to the clinic, but when he entered, the door to the courtyard hung ajar and Adel was gone.
Felix was late for the evening meal by the time he entered the insula courtyard.
Darkness had fallen over the city some hours ago.
He hadn’t been able to see Adel again. She’d gone with the gladiatrices to eat, and he’d been called to give an account of the medical spending to Jovan.
Any further conversation would have to wait.
He took the stairs two at a time and was breathless by the time he reached the apartment on the top floor.
The voices inside were a pot bubbling over, too quick to catch before they were spilling into the hall, wrapping around him in the form of his youngest sister.
“Felix, I’m so glad you’re home!” Oppia threw her arms around his waist. “We’re celebrating—do you know why?
Guess! I bet you can’t guess.” She grabbed his arm and tugged his head closer.
“Felicia thinks it’s because her blade seller got a job making swords for the ludi, but it’s really because Pater got a job! ”
So much for guessing. He tried to untangle the stream of words as Oppia dragged him inside.
Pater got a job, and . . . Ilias was working for the ludi?
He’d been successful, then, pitching his collapsing gladius idea to Jovan.
A measure of relief accompanied the news.
Would that mean fewer injuries, fewer deaths in the future?
And Pater. What new venture had he found?
Tension accompanied that news but there was no time to wrestle it out.
As soon as he stepped into the room, Mater pushed to her feet from where she and the rest of the family lounged around the dining table, chattering.
“We saved you some.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mater. I’ll get it.”
She waved him to the table. “Nonsense. You sit and listen to your pater’s news.”
Cassia and Felicia squished together so Felix could join them at the low table. He nudged a flattened cushion closer and sat.
“You found work?”
“I heard of a need to repair the public latrines around the entertainment district.” Pater slid a cup toward him. “With the games approaching and the emperor’s visit imminent, there is a rush to prepare the city for his arrival. And . . . perhaps entice him to return permanently.”
Felix nodded and took a drink. He’d noticed a flurry of trash haulers and building scrubbers, at work in the frigid temperatures. Perhaps they weren’t exactly frigid, but the cold, dampness of December in Rome had made him miss the drier warmth of Alexandria more than once lately.
“There was a failure in the plumbing from the latrines near the amphitheatre to the sewer, and no one in the city has the exact drainage tiles needed—except for us.” The way he said us, with a smile that was both welcoming and forgiving, sent a bar of remorse to Felix’s chest. They’d made progress this morning chipping at the strain in their relationship.
But how did one make up missing years and broken promises in a matter of hours?
“The Lord always provides,” Mater said, setting a plate of congealed lentils and bread in front of Felix. How was she always so certain? Of Pater’s goodness, of God’s working. Both, when all evidence pointed to the contrary. Her unwavering faith convicted him.
Felix let out a breath. It seemed too good to be true, and he was hesitant to trust it, even as he wished for the weight of worry to tumble from his shoulders, landing at his feet in a cloud of dust.
“So, the creditors . . .” He hardly dared to hope it.
“Won’t be bothering us anymore—or at least, not after I get the down payment for the project.” Pater tilted his head. “You don’t look happy about it.”
Felix shook his head. “It simply . . . feels too good to be true.”
“This means you can leave the ludus behind. Work with me until another opportunity arises,” Pater continued.
So that was what the us had been about. An instant uneasiness struck. How could he leave the ludus now? He’d rescued two fighters but there were dozens of others. Not to mention Adel. She’d only just begun to trust him. Could he simply leave her?
No. Not without carrying the regret with him for the rest of his life.
“I can’t, Pater,” he said quietly.
Pater’s salted eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean?”
His mouth went dry and he pushed away from the table, his thoughts beginning to tumble, pick up speed and shape. “Walk with me?”
They left the apartment, descending the stairs in silence and pausing in the courtyard near the fountain. Felix shared everything. The threat to Rome, the coming games, Telemachus’s plans to return as many Visigoth captives to Alaric as possible. His part in it all.
“And I do not know if I can . . .” He looked up. “How can I leave them, Pater?”
“I have not asked you why you returned to the ludus because I feared your answer.” Pater blew out a long breath when he finished.
“But this sets those fears to rest—and unearths others. You’ve got yourself in a dangerous tangle, son, and if Jovan finds out .
. . he will not be happy, Blandus Albus either, and that is putting it mildly. They are not men to be crossed.”
“In my place, would you abandon your position and leave them to their fate?”
Pater’s lips tugged upward. “Your mater would have a thing or two to say if I did.”
Felix gave a half-hearted smile.
“So what is your plan?”
“Short of waiting for them to grow ill enough that I can fake their deaths and sneak them out with monks dressed as undertakers? Nothing. That has worked so far, but it is slow and risky. Telemachus has gone to plead with the emperor but—”
The creaking of the street-side door silenced them. A city messenger stepped inside, shaking overly long hair out of his eyes. His face brightened once he could see them and he peered at the missive in his hand as he crossed the courtyard.
“I’ve a letter for Felix Cassianus. Do you know which apartment he’s in?”
“Good fortune to you.” Pater smiled. “I am Felix Cassianus, and so is he.”
The boy looked between them and hesitated. “It is from the monastery.”
“Then it is mine.” Felix fished through his pouch for a coin and traded it for the missive. The boy left as he opened it. “It is from Telemachus,” he murmured.
“Let us hope it is good news.”
Seven words scrawled across the page and seemed to freeze the heart in his chest.
“What does he say?” Pater urged. “Did the emperor change his mind? Cancel the games?”
Felix swallowed the sudden dryness in his throat and looked up. “He writes, I have failed. Do all you can.”
Pater let out a long breath, his brow wrinkled in disappointment or thought. Perhaps both.
Felix reread the lines over and again. How could so few letters carry the weight of a thousand sinking ships? Of defeat before the battle had even begun? Do all you can? What could that possibly be? The rescue of a handful of fighters? What good would that do?
“Perhaps you should not work with me.” Pater’s sandals scraped on the paving stones as he shifted his weight. “I think . . . perhaps I should work with you.”
Felix looked up. “But the job—”
“There’s a city beneath Rome,” Pater continued, words gaining speed if not volume, “roads and rivers, detours and bypasses, passages and doorways, all connecting to the upper city like veins to the heart.”
Felix nodded. He’d heard as much even if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. Though only Pater might refer to a sewer system as a city. But what any of it had to do with Telemachus’s message, was beyond him.
Pater ran his tongue over his teeth. “Perhaps my news this evening was meant for such a time as this.”
“What do you mean?” What could toilet repairs possibly have to do with the rescue of slaves and imminent destruction of Rome?
“I have access to everything. To the Ludus Magnus, the Flavian Amphitheatre. To the very heart of Rome.”