Blood of a Gladiator - Ashley Gardner Page 0,77

youthful charm about him, and a quick-wittedness that his father lacked. I assumed he took after his mother.

“Is he here to perform?” one of the other men asked. The bright whiteness of his toga with a purple stripe told me he held high office and had the money to keep his garments pristine. “Here to show us some of his winning moves? I have seen you fight, Leonidas the Spartan. You are quite skilled. My son admires you greatly.”

“He’s no Spartan,” the middle-class man said in disparagement.

Priscus moved to my side. “Gladiators take grandiose names, or are given them. I will speak to him, as I know he’d not have come if it weren’t important.”

He ushered me out of the triclinium and to the peristyle garden. I saw, through the opening to the atrium, that Cassia was deep in conversation with Kephalos—he regarded her with a frustrated frown.

Light from the rising moon filtered through the open roof of the peristyle, turning the trees’ leaves silver. The trickling fountain lent a peaceful note.

Priscus settled a fold of his toga on his shoulder and wiped his brow. “Truth to tell, my friend, I am happy you came along. Tedious fellows. But one must play host every so often, or be lambasted. What can I do for you?”

“Who is the Equestrian?” I gestured behind us, as though he could see the middle-class man in the dining room. “You said he saved your life by drinking poison meant for you.”

Priscus glanced heavenward. “Calls himself Gaius Drusus Aquilinus. ‘The eagle-eyed one,’ he says. More like the eagle-nosed one.” Priscus chuckled. “He was a client of my father-in-law’s, and I, the dutiful son-in-law, continue to see him. He’s a plebeian who bought his way into the Equestrian class, with the help of my wife’s father.” Priscus dropped his voice. “He wanted to marry my wife, at one time—thought her father should have her divorce me and take him. My father-in-law disabused him of that notion quickly enough. I might not be all my father-in-law had dreamed of, but I am patrician born, and he was a snob. My wife wouldn’t hear of it either, because she detested dear Aquilinus.” He smiled in fond memory.

“I wonder if he’d have the wish to kill you,” I said.

Priscus raised his brows. “You believe he wants me dead? I’m not certain why he would. He’d lose my patronage—he likes that, even if he dislikes me.”

“He could become your son’s client if you were gone, couldn’t he?”

“Possibly. But Decimus is his own man. No, I can’t believe it of Aquilinus. He’s rather a coward.”

“We have discovered that someone indeed is trying to kill you,” I said. “A threat you should take seriously. They hope your death will cause that of the princeps.”

In brief sentences, I explained what we’d discovered from Nero. Priscus listened in disbelief, his skepticism growing as I finished.

“That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard,” Priscus said, scoffing. “You must learn that our princeps enjoys drama, the more the better. Depend upon it, Leonidas, his entire tale is a parcel of lies.”

Chapter 22

Priscus stated the words loudly, determinedly. He began to fold his arms, but the toga prevented him, and he tugged at the fabric in annoyance.

“You once told me the gods looked out for you,” I said. “Could it be a person instead?”

Priscus ceased pulling at the toga and folded his hands. “I have friends, Leonidas, but I doubt very much that any love me enough to threaten the princeps to keep me alive. What man would?”

I glanced at the dining room, to see Decimus emerging. “A son, perhaps?”

Whatever comment Priscus had opened his mouth to make died on his lips. “Decimus?” Amazement then worry flared and dimmed. “He honors his father, yes, but that is taking it a bit far. But …”

Decimus entered the garden, the wind that swept it ruffling his dark curls. “They’re becoming restless, Father. They want the paterfamilias, not the heir.”

“They’d do well to cultivate your friendship,” Priscus growled, then he sighed. “I do despair of all this bootlicking. Decimus, Leonidas has proposed that you keep a running threat to Nero that he will die if anything happens to me.”

Decimus began to laugh, thinking it a jest, then his laughter faded.

“I?” He pressed his fingers to his chest. Decimus also wore a toga, but it draped his frame elegantly and remained in place. “I doubt Nero—or any man—would be afraid of me. I have little power. I’m good with figures, and