Blood of a Gladiator - Ashley Gardner Page 0,48

beyond. Either the vigile had sought sanctuary in the temple, or he’d known another way out I hadn’t seen.

In disgust I quit the place. I’d find him later. He’d have to return to his watch house eventually.

I decided to continue up the Esquiline and visit Priscus, and after a short walk, reached his home. The benches outside his front door held three visitors, sheltered by a roof over the vestibule. They were his clients—men who’d come to petition Priscus to help them do whatever they needed done. In return, they’d support him with services or votes, or would simply be loyal to him when he needed it. It was midmorning, and a paterfamilias usually saw clients first thing, so they must have been waiting for some time. Priscus, I’d noticed however, followed his own rules.

I seated myself after giving my name to the doorman, pretending I too was a new client.

Two of the waiting men were freedmen, and the third wore a toga of the middle, or Equestrian, class. The Equestrian spoke to no one, and looked on disdainfully as the other two began to tell me about matches they’d seen me fight, remembering each blow better than I did.

The middle-class man’s face grew more sour when the doorman emerged and asked for me first. The two freedmen thought it my due and cheerfully waved me on.

Priscus had retreated to his garden, in spite of the rain. He wandered the paths among the shrubs, snipping branches here and there. The gardener lounged under shelter of the arched walkway, dozing.

“Decimus has made a full recovery,” Priscus told me before I could greet him. “He is resilient, that boy.”

“Does he know who kidnapped him?” The servants had told Cassia no, but I wanted to hear information unfiltered through servants’ stories.

“Hired ruffians, so he says.” Priscus snipped another branch and tossed it into the wide basket on the bench. He’d put on a hat against the rain, and water dripped from its brim. “Decimus told me he was walking from his rented house in Antioch to our new warehouse there, and was snatched. He fought, but was dragged off, a bag over his head so he couldn’t see. The next thing he knew, he was in a ship. He saw the sailors who brought him food but no one else through the voyage. Twenty-five days he was at sea on a bulk cargo ship. A courier on a faster ship brought me their demand—he knew nothing, did the courier. Only paid to deliver a message.”

“Do you think the kidnappers came from an enemy you made?” I asked. “Someone you owed money to—or your wife’s business owed?”

“No, no.” Priscus was quick with the denial. “My wife had an excellent head for business. She owed no one. Her accounts were impeccable, and all expenses settled when she died. As for enemies …” He spread his hands. “One always has them, of course. Patricians, especially those from very old families, can be prickly. However, I have fewer enemies than most.” He gave me a thin smile. “I do so very little, which is to my taste. When I was a general, I was considered fair if not brilliant. I brought my men home and got them paid.”

I understood Cassia’s frustration with the man. He was determined that no one hated him enough to threaten his son, even though Nero had hinted he was in great danger. It must be about money, I reasoned. People would risk much for that.

“The sailors were all killed,” I reminded him. “Executed on the dock. Who would do that?”

Priscus studied the twig of a brightly flowering bush and made a deliberate snip. Dead leaves fluttered to the ground. “I hesitate to tell you this, Leonidas, because I am a practical man without much use for magic or mystical things.” His cheeks went pink. “But I believe the gods watch out for me. I have more than once escaped certain death, either by side-stepping at the right moment, or a guard stopping an assassin, or a guest drinking poison meant for me.” His expression turned sad. “The poor fellow.”

“Did this man die of the poison?” I asked.

“Hm? Oh, no, indeed. Was quite ill for a time, but recovered. Thank the gods … again. You might have seen him outside. Square face, looks as though he’s sucked a lemon. I feel obligated to take care of him now. He did save my life.”

I thought of the irritated middle-class man, and I understood his