The Beast of Verona: Book I of the Decimus Trilogy Read online

  “Thank God,” the stranger exclaimed a little enthusiastically. She was surprised to find he carried no accent at all. He must have been from America. “I just started learning Italian, but this is more comfortable.”

  “Just started to learn?” she questioned. “You fooled me. I thought you were Italian. You speak the language so well.”

  The stranger shrugged. “I’m a fast learner. I’m Howard, by the way.”

  She smiled and nodded in his direction, her glasses slipping again. “Marina D'Antuono.” If she had her hands free, she would have offered it to him.

  As they came to the front doors, Howard balanced the stack of books in one arm while opening the door for her with the other. She blinked at the ease of which he carried so many books without so much as a sign of struggle.

  “Grazie,” she said again and passed over the threshold. The air condition and crisp smell of a freshly cleaned marble floor met her like a friendly relative after a long absence.

  Marina loved this place, enamored by the rich history of the museum itself and the artifacts it contained. Even though much of the displays were behind glass, she felt a certain inexplicable, deep connection with the ancient relics of the past. They weren’t just objects to her. They were alive, bearing a unique story that was just waiting to be told. It was one thing to read about the pottery in a book and stare at a two dimensional gray scale photo, but it was entirely another to see the piece of pottery in person, feel the texture of the clay and marvel at the brilliant colors they were painted.

  Howard followed her in and let the door close behind them. “I was hoping to take a peek at your new gladiator exhibit if that’s alright?”

  She glanced over her shoulder as she made her way down the corridors. “That’s perfectly fine. It’s a wonderful exhibit. We only have a day or two left with the artifacts before they’re placed back in storage.”

  “I’m glad I came when I did then.”

  Arena di Verona, 71 AD

  Caprasia sat straight as an arrow in her seat beside her father, even though she would give anything to slouch down and lean against the railing ahead of her. But, her father had scolded her before they entered the amphitheater to behave. Caprasia scorned the idea of behaving.

  Spoiled by her father since her mother had passed away when she was a small child, Caprasia was rarely told she could not have something, go somewhere or do something. Such was the privileges of a politician’s daughter. But the next election would decide their future in Verona. If her father was not voted to remain in office, it could mean the difference between purchasing that new piece of jewelry and settling for the trinkets that she already had.

  She found the obnoxious shouts and jeers of the crowd in the amphitheater odious in every sense. Warm, perspiring bodies crammed together to watch men bleed and die was not her idea of a wonderful afternoon. At least in their private section, Caprasia was allowed a little space to breathe.

  She glanced to her father, who was just as enraptured in the games as any other in the stands. However, he did not show his enthusiasm in his face, but rather it was in his eyes that his true fascination laid. Despite his aging body, his mind and spirit were still youthful and exuberant.

  The creases in his face told the story of an aristocratic man who tirelessly worked to provide for his family, but longed for the glory of battle instead. Many times she had heard him drone on and on about how he wished he had joined the Roman army when he was a younger man. But, he would always recoil his old dreams, knowing that if he had done just what he wished so long ago, he would have never met Caprasia’s mother.

  Caprasia looked back to the arena and nearly retched when she witnessed the exotic tiger sink its teeth into the defenseless criminal they were executing. She barely had the stomach for such senseless violence. If it weren’t for the sake of appearances, she would have stayed at home.

  Her dark russet eyes closed as she pushed back the wave of nausea and squared her shoulders. Just a few more hours and she could return back to their villa.

  When the sickening crunch of bones and tearing of flesh subsided, Caprasia opened her eyes again to watch as the attendants corralled the beast back into its prison. Others were dragging what remained of the corpse behind the tiger so the beast could finish its meal in private.

  Such barbaric spectacles. Caprasia sometimes wished that she were not Roman, a member of the society that called this sport entertainment. She often caught the tail end of conversations between her father and other officials about what was called the “bread and games” system. Feed the people and entertain them and they were never the wiser, lured into complacency.

  Caprasia’s adolescent opinion was unimportant, but she sometimes believed the Romans to be worse criminals than the one who had just been eaten alive moments ago. Their borders were expanding, but at what cost? Caprasia often wondered why she cared about the families and tribes that were wiped out or pressured into subservience.

  Once she had protested to her father about the unfairness. His response was “What do you care if they suffer as long as you have your pretty fabrics and jewels?” His words had slapped her into the awareness of how hypocritical she had been. The thin line between enigmatic compassion and self-centered indulgence had become an ambiguous place for Caprasia. She couldn’t make up her mind.

  She was snapped out of her reverie as a new scene unfolded before her. Two men entered the arena.

  The Murmillo gladiator was wielding a gladius and scutum shield that was large and rectangular, able to defend most of his body against attack. He wore a metal grieve upon his shin while the opposite arm was wrapped in linen and tied on with leather cord. His helmet was large, styled to resemble a fish head on the crest with small eyeholes.

  The other, a Retiarius, wore absolutely no armor, clothed in only a loincloth and thick leather belt around his torso. His only weapons were a dagger strapped to his belt, a trident and a net that dragged through the sand as he approached his opponent.

  The Retiarius walked tall and proud, whereas the Murmillo seemed hesitant and awkward as he waddled out into the arena. Caprasia watched with interest as the Retiarius turned to regard the amphitheater and the spectators. He seemed angry, resentful. His hazel eyes were glaring. The breath in her lungs froze as such a gaze was turned towards her and her father.

  And what eyes they were. She had never seen any other pair like them. A deep brown hue faded into a rich honey color, then bordered all by a thick rim of black. They were striking, vicious, but held a kind of depth she didn’t expect to see coupled with such fierce emotion.

  She wanted to sink down in her seat, to hide from the gladiator’s hateful eyes.

  But at the same time, she never wanted that handsome face to turn away. His square jaw was set firm, dark brows slanting in a scowl that completed his ferocious gladiator presence. With one look, Caprasia was carried away in a tide of excitement that melted her body from her sandaled feet to her dark hairline.

  The way the sweat glistened across the bulging muscles on his arms and chest made her heart thud faster beneath her chest. The longer her stared, the more her body tingled with a strange power that exuded from his eyes. She was sure if her deep brown hair were not securely pinned up behind her head, the strands would have stood on end from her scalp.

  The crowd began to shout for the Retiarius. “Lupus! Lupus!” they cried, pumping their fists into the air to cheer on their favorite gladiator. But he paid them no mind. His gaze was locked in her direction. Caprasia wanted to think that it was her he was staring at, but she knew better that he must have been looking to her father for the cue to start the match.

  Her father, Quintus Marius Strabo, was the sponsor for the event. He was in control of what happened in the arena.

  Quintus raised his arm and gave the gladiators his consent to begin. It was only then that Lupus turned his back upon Caprasia and broke the spell he had unwittingly cast upon her. She blinked away the disorientation and watched
the match.

  Lupus and the Murmillo circled one another like stalking beasts. The Murmillo was fidgety, light on his feet. Lupus strode confidently, his footing solid and casual as if he were walking down the streets of Rome rather than facing an opponent who could potentially kill him.

  It was then that she realized the humor in the display. The Murmillo, the fish, was pitted against the Retiarius, the fisherman with his net and trident. Caprasia leaned closer and evaluated the iniquitousness of the match.

  Lupus had no armor and unconventional weapons, whereas the Murmillo had more armor and a familiar sword that would easily overpower the Retiarius. But Lupus had maneuverability on his side. He was not weighed down with a helmet he could not see through or a shield to lug around the arena. But in the same breath, it would be said that Lupus had no way of defending himself. Caprasia, as well as the audience, were on the edge of their seat to see who the victor may be.

  Lupus cast his net towards the Murmillo, the weights tied to the edges helped the net to spread like an open blanket over his opponent. The Murmillo dodge out of the way and raised his shield to knock the net to the side.

  Opening himself up, the Murmillo almost didn’t see Lupus thrust the trident towards his exposed belly. The Murmillo blocked the attack with his sword, catching the blade between the prongs of the trident and twisting it out of the way. Lupus refused to release his hold on the trident, no matter how hard the Murmillo twisted his sword to disarm the Retiarius.

  Caprasia blinked and Lupus was upon the Murmillo and shoved his elbow into his opponent’s chest, knocking him to the ground.

  The Murmillo’s neck, chest and stomach were bared, open to attack. But Lupus did not seize his chance. He dislodged his trident from the Murmillo’s sword and took a few steps away from his opponent. He stood still and waited.

  Caprasia’s eyebrows pinched over her nose in confusion. This was not the way a gladiator battle went. No mercy was shown, no quarter to the fallen or wounded. A gladiator was not to decide the fate of the vanquished in the arena. He fought to the bitter end if that’s what the match called for.

  She glanced to her father, who seemed unaffected by this display. Caprasia hadn’t attended many events in the past and she certainly had never seen Lupus fight before. Was this normal behavior for him?

  It took a few moments for the Murmillo to fumble to his feet. He readied himself once again and took the offensive strategy. He charged towards Lupus, his sword raised above his head.

  Lupus caught the sword with his trident and wrenched it out of the Murmillo’s grasp and jabbed the prongs at his opponent’s helmet. Caprasia, to her chagrin, gasped and shielded her eyes under the belief that Lupus was about to skewer the Murmillo through the eyes or neck.

  But when she looked, she saw that Lupus was stumbling backwards. Clumsiness? This strong, valiant gladiator was tripping over his own feet, the net slipping from his hands to lay useless in the dirt. Caprasia felt like shouting at the man, telling him to get a hold of himself and fight the way he should. However, the gentle reminder that her father was still sitting beside her helped to hold her tongue.

  Lupus rolled, giving the Murmillo enough time to retrieve his sword. The Murmillo began to pummel Lupus with blow after blow, not waiting for him to rise from the ground. Every strike he blocked with the staff of his trident.

  A bare foot shot up and kicked the Murmillo in the stomach, sending him backwards. Lupus leapt to his feet and let out a shout as he stormed towards the Murmillo. Blows were exchanged and before Caprasia could realize it, blood splattered upon the ground.

  She found herself swerving in her seat, searching Lupus’s body for wounds. She could see none, but the Murmillo sustained many gashes and cuts that oozed red. Caprasia watched as the men continued their heart racing battle.

  Much of the crowd was on their feet, voices hollering into the arena.

  The longer Caprasia watched, the more she was convinced that Lupus was not putting his all into the fight. There was little power behind his attacks. Discarding the trident, he used his dagger to block and slash at the Murmillo. She saw him stumble over nothing, strike at the air, pretend to hold a wound when the Murmillo didn’t even come close to cutting him. Was he trying to lose this battle? Caprasia simply couldn’t understand how her new handsome hero was throwing this fight away.

  Then, as if the weather had suddenly changed, Caprasia noticed a shift in the way Lupus fought. He turned fully offensive, his attacks as quick as Jupiter’s lightning bolts. The Murmillo braved the assault.

  The shield somehow came loose from his arm and the gladius spun through the air to land several feet away. This was the Lupus that Caprasia expected, a demigod of gladiators, his might unattested. He wasn’t holding back now.

  Caprasia was on her feet, leaning against the railing of the wall, watching with wide expectant eyes. Just like the other spectators, she found herself thirsting for the blood of the gladiator who fought against her favorite. She wanted Lupus to win the glory of this battle, to see him victoriously standing over the Murmillo with his dagger at the loser’s throat.

  Soon, it was over. Lupus had the Murmillo on his back. His foot planted upon his opponent. Once more, Lupus turned to the seat of honor in the amphitheater. The murderous glint in his eyes made her knees go weak. Such strength, cunning and masculinity was overwhelming. Caprasia thought she would faint.

  Quintus laid a heavy hand upon his daughter’s shoulder and steadied her back into her seat, standing in her place.

  He turned his attention to the crowd and listened. Caprasia listened too and couldn’t believe what she heard. “Missio!” they shouted. They demanded the reprieve of the opponent, to not be slain, for his lifeblood not to pour into the sand of the arena floor.

  Were they mad? Lupus was the victor, not the Murmillo.

  Looking to her father, panic written in her countenance.

  Quintus raised his hands, granting the Murmillo his life.

  Lupus stepped off of the Murmillo and dropped his dagger into the dust at his feet. Then, Caprasia saw it. The subtle shift of his gaze from her father to her.

  The corners of her lips twitched into a smile, happy to be noticed by such a mighty warrior. His expression did not soften like so many men’s faces did at the sight of her youthful beauty. He remained cold, dark and brooding. How could such a perfect specimen of manhood harbor so much fury?

  Lupus assisted the Murmillo to his feet with one tug of his arm and then turned to storm out of the arena. The crowd around her, though their presence was undeniable by the raucous shouts they made, seemed to fade away as she watched him walk away. Caprasia memorized the way his shoulders and back muscles shifted under his skin with each step and she sighed with longing that she’d never felt before.

  “Are you well, Caprasia?” Quintus asked, sitting back down in his seat next to her.

  “Yes, I’m well. That gladiator, Lupus, does he fight that way often?”

  He turned to her, his bushy grey eyebrows angling downwards in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  Caprasia motioned towards the arena where the attendants were retrieving the discarded weapons. “Lupus could have defeated that Murmillo. He won. Why did you spare his life?”

  Quintus eased himself back and shook his head as he laughed. “That’s not always how the games work, daughter. The crowd admired the Murmillo for his efforts. He fought well against Lupus and they praise him for it. If I hope to maintain their respect, I should listen to their demands.” He paused and reached for the bowl that held a cluster of grapes. Plucking one from its stem, he settled back down. “Not only that, but the lanistas put a price upon the heads of their gladiators. If I sentenced one to death, I’d have to compensate for his demise. And I am not willing to pay the price the lanista had asked for.”

  “But, I could see how Lupus fought. He did not put his all into the fight. Does he do that often? It was like he was purposefully making mistakes.”

  Quintu
s nodded. “I’ve seen Lupus fight many time and he does that often. He makes his opponent look good, but he has never lost a battle. Sometimes I believe he does it so that the crowd chooses life over death.” Her father sighed heavily. “But, sometimes it does not work out so well. Lupus’s hands are covered in the blood of his opponents. Unfortunately, I think he has killed more than he has saved.”

  Caprasia turned to see another pair of gladiators take the field, but she was no longer interested. Her mind was consumed by the handsome face of the Retiarius and the echo of her father’s words.

  4

  Museo della Civiltà Romana, Rome Italy, 2015

  Marina felt like she had been talking for hours with Howard. Her throat was slightly sore and she was more than a little thirsty by now. After dropping the books off in her office, they had wandered over to the gladiator exhibit he inquired about.

  They stopped at every artifact as she explained the significance of it, where it was found, who it might have belonged to, what it was used for and her personal theories on many aspects of the life of a gladiator in the Roman Empire.

  But unlike others, Howard listened with an intensity that surprised her. Most tourists – and even her coworkers - would have become bored by now, listening to her drone on and on about the diet and style of clothes of the gladiators. He seemed to care so deeply about every small detail.

  And he didn’t just listen. He asked questions, probing for more information. Marina hadn’t met someone so interested in history as she was. She began to wonder if he was simply faking the interest for the sake of humoring her. But the focused eyes that absorbed every element of the artifacts didn’t lie.

  They came to the final artifact, a helmet that was uncovered from Pompeii. It had been perfectly preserved under the ash for nearly two millennia. The ornately carved reliefs in the helmet’s crown was stunning, depicting figures of men holding spears and kneeling.

  Marina thought it haunting. Who wore this helmet last? Were they a famous gladiator or a Tiro gladiator partaking in his first battle?