A Gladiator Dies Only Once Read Free

place, not even in Cicero’s house.
    The consul’s house was near the Forum, only a short walk from that of Lucius Claudius. I had been admitted at once; thanks to Lucius, my visit was expected. Decimus Brutus dismissed a cadre of secretaries and ushered me into his private study. He dispensed with formalities. His agitation was obvious.
    “My wife . . .” He cleared his throat again. Decimus Brutus, highest magistrate in the land, used to giving campaign speeches in the Forum and orations in the courts, seemed unable to begin.
    “She’s certainly beautiful,” I said, gazing at the portrait that graced one of the few spaces on the wall not covered by bookcases. It was a small picture, done in encaustic wax on wood, yet it dominated the room. A young woman of remarkable beauty gazed out from the picture. Strings of pearls adorned the masses of auburn hair done up with pearl-capped pins atop her head. More pearls hung from her ears and around her throat. The chaste simplicity of her jewelry contrasted with a glint in her green eyes that was challenging, aloof, almost predatory.
    Decimus Brutus stepped closer to the painting. He lifted his chin and squinted, drawing so close that his nose practically brushed the wax.
    “Beautiful, yes,” he murmured. “The artist didn’t capture even a fraction of her beauty. I married her for it; for that, and to have a son. Sempronia gave me both, her beauty and a baby boy. And do you know why she married me?” The consul stepped disconcertingly close and peered at me. With another man, I would have taken such proximate scrutiny as an intimidation, but the myopic consul was merely straining to read my expression.
    He sighed. “Sempronia married me for my books. I know, it sounds absurd—a woman who reads!—but there it is: she didn’t assent to the marriage until she saw this room, and that made up her mind. She’s read every volume here—more than I have! She even writes a bit herself—poetry and such. Her verses are too . . . passionate . . . for my taste.”
    He cleared his throat again. “Sempronia, you see, is not like other women. Sometimes I think the gods gave her the soul of a man. She reads like a man. She converses like a man. She has her own motley circle of friends—poets, playwrights, dubious women. When Sempronia has them over, the witticisms roll off her tongue. She even appears to think. She has opinions, anyway. Opinions on everything—art, racing, architecture, even politics! And she has no shame. In the company of her little circle, she plays the lute—better than our best-trained slave, I have to admit. And she dances for them.” He grimaced. “I told her such behavior was indecent, completely unsuitable for a consul’s wife. She says that when she dances, the gods and goddesses speak through her body, and her friends understand what they see, even if I don’t. We’ve had so many rows, I’ve almost given up rowing about it.”
    He sighed. “I’ll give her this: she’s not a bad mother. Sempronia has done a good job raising little Decimus. And despite her youth, her performance of official duties as consul’s wife has been impeccable. Nor has she shamed me publicly. She’s kept her . . . eccentricities . . . confined to this house. But. . .”
    He seemed to run dry. His chin dropped to his chest.
    “One of her duties,” I prompted him, “is to oversee society news in the Daily Acts, is it not?”
    He nodded. He squinted for a moment at Sempronia’s portrait, then turned his back to it. “Lucius explained to you the cause for my concern?”
    “Only in the most discreet fashion.”
    “Then I shall be explicit. Understand, Finder, the subject is . . . acutely embarrassing. Lucius tells me you can keep your mouth shut. If I’m wrong, if my suspicions are unfounded, I can’t have news of my foolishness spread all over the Forum. And if I’m right—if what I suspect is true—I can afford the scandal even less.”
    “I