Uptown Local and Other Interventions Read Online Free PDF Page A

made for him a year or so ago, a little woman-shape like Milla the cloth-seller, one-third bosom and two-thirds hips, but still strangely graceful. “The Lady of the Caves,” the Gaul had called her: “the Lady of the tunnels and holes and dark places underneath: Venus Cloacina…”
      Carefully Lucius put the lamp down in front of the little figures, and he raised his hands to pray. “Thanks again,” he said. “This is the best thing I’ve ever had. Please take care of the nice lady who gave me the money. I’ll take good care of the murmillo . I promise.”
    Then Lucius lay down and rolled himself in the rest of the blanket, and blew out the lamp. He put a hand out to the rolled-up murmillo , let out a breath, and, smiling, fell asleep.
     
    *
     
    So, he heard someone say in the night: probably someone going home late from the nearby brothel. Do I win?
    You win, said another voice, more amused than annoyed. I admit it.
    And…? said the first voice.
    Oh, stop that. You know I’ll pay the debt. What do I owe him?
    The usual. A day of heart’s desire .
    And if he can’t cope?
    A long, slow smile began to underlie the darkness. Are you betting he can’t?
    Lucius turned over and slept again.
     
    *

 
    A second later, it seemed, he awoke in the dark. It was dawn again. Lucius reached out his hand, knowing that between him and the brick would be—
    ...nothing?!
    Lucius sat up and just missed banging his head against the ceiling. He swore under his breath. Catharis! he thought, feeling around, and not finding the murmillo anywhere. He actually came in here and took it! I’ll kill him! —
    He knew where Catharis slept—in an underhang over by the door the gladiators used to go into the arena and he didn’t need a light to find his way. Lucius headed around the curve of the inmost aisle, toward the Fighter’s Gate, the way the gladiators went into the ring. Off to the right was the place where Catharis would be sleeping. Lucius stalked down the aisle, not even trying to be quiet. But then an oblong of light in front of him distracted him and he slowed to stare at it—pale light, very early morning light, seeping in. The Fighter’s Gate was ajar. Silently Lucius crept forward to look out into the arena.
    That pale strange light of morning twilight turned everything—sand, stands, shadow—all one shade of indefinite blue. High up, the sky was still dark; but above the rim of the arena, hanging like a watching eye, was the morning star. And out on the sand, in the empty silence of the arena, a single murmillo was working out. In better light, his crest might have been red with two tall plumes, and the shadows around his helmet a garland of roses, a design calculated to please the ladies.
    Lucius stepped out through the Fighter’s Gate and moved slowly across the twilit sand. The murmillo just kept going through his basic drill, a flowing sequence of techniques with sword and shield. The sand, dry after being raked and left to rest for the night, squeaked under his footsteps.
    Ten paces away, Lucius stopped to watch. The murmillo had that same easy grace that Hilarus did, the gift for making it look simple. Though his moves were less showy, their precision was just as crisp. When he finished, the murmillo turned, swinging his sword and working one shoulder as if it bothered him. That was when he saw Lucius and strode over to him, towering above the boy’s head.
    What happened next took Lucius’s breath away. The gladiator saluted, then gravely went down on one knee. “Sir,” he said. “I am your gladiator.” He took his helmet off.
    For an instant Lucius was afraid there would be only daubs of ink inside, but the face was normal enough, though rough-hewn and blocky as if genuinely carved from wood. The eyes were no darker than any other Roman. Lucius lowered his own eyes from that direct stare, astonishingly childlike in a full-grown man. And then he saw, above the greave on the left leg, a dimple in the