19. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

M arcus Fabius Varro

All I can smell is the stench of unwashed bodies as I rummage through the pile of used garments Laura has stacked on one of the beds. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, holding up a tunic that looks like it might fit, but smells as though it’s been worn by a gladiator during a particularly grueling training session.

“Do all men in this time neglect their hygiene?” I ask, tossing the offensive tunic aside with a scowl.

Laura chuckles, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “There aren’t exactly laundry facilities on this uninhabited island.”

I shrug, my bare skin prickling in the cool air of the shelter. As a necessity of life in the ludus, where privacy was a luxury we could ill afford, nudity has long since ceased to bother me.

When I note the way Laura’s gaze flicks over my exposed body before darting away, I say, “Modesty disappears quickly when you’re living and training in close quarters with dozens of other men or fighting nude in front of thousands.”

“I can imagine,” she murmurs, a faint blush coloring her cheeks .

She hands me a garment she calls boxers and explains that men wear them instead of loincloths or subligaculum . I try but reject them. After a moment of thinking, Laura retrieves a large white sheet of cloth. She stands still for a long moment, then opens a small leather case and retrieves a small knife, which she uses to cut the edge. She rips it into long strips that are now perfect for the undergarment I’m used to wearing. She turns her back while I put the loincloth on.

In this strange new world, it’s a comfort to have something familiar.

“Oh!” Laura’s excited voice has me quickly turning to her. She holds up what appears to be a piece of metal.

“The guys were constantly teasing Rick on his choice of shaving blades.” She presses something on the top of the metal and a blade springs out. “It’s similar to a novacula . Did you have one of those, Varro?”

“Yes. Mine showed a hound chasing a hare. We used a pumice stone to scrape off the stubble from our faces if it had grown too long and a round stone to keep the edge of my bronze novacula sharp. It was almost as sharp as my sword.”

“Well, this will do the same thing, and this strap is used to keep the blade sharp.” She demonstrates as she speaks.

She places the blade, now retracted into its metal cover, and the strap along with a bar of soap into a small black bag that closes with what Laura calls a zipper.

I continue my search, finally settling on a pair of bracae that smell better than the rest. They are soft and thick as wool, but not as heavy. After I pull the strange, bunched fabric on the waist, it snaps back into shape. Amazing. As I pull them on, I catch Laura watching me, her expression curious.

“What was it like?” she asks, hesitating slightly. “In the ludus? ”

I don’t know what to make of this woman. At times, it appears she has the bearing of a patrician, one comfortable with giving orders and expecting to be obeyed. At other times, she seems shy, fearful of saying the wrong thing. I’ll try not to offend her, and will answer her questions, but strengthen my resolve not to let my guard down.

To answer her inquiry about my training, I pause as memories of endless hours of sparring, the clash of swords, and the coppery scent of blood flood my senses.

“The ludus was brutal.” My voice is rough. “We trained from dawn until dusk, learning to fight, building our strength, and honing our skills. Weakness was not tolerated.”

Laura’s expression grows thoughtful. For a moment, it’s as though she’s combing through my memories, and seeing the pictures I just sifted through.

“I’ve been fascinated with ancient Rome since I was a child.”

Her words pierce me, though I’m sure she didn’t mean to offend. “Ancient Rome,” I scoff.

“Sorry. That was thoughtless. I’ve always thought of it as that. It’s what everyone calls it.”

Are we having a conversation? Because my mind shuts down for a moment as the reality of my situation burrows a little deeper into my mind. To me, what was yesterday is just some dusty half-memory written about in old books.

“So you want to know about ancient Rome?” It’s a bit of a tease, not meant to be harsh.

Laura pauses, and for one of the first times since I awakened, she fully meets my gaze.

“Yes. It would be a privilege, a dream come true in a thousand ways to hear your first-hand accounts. But, Varro? I think what I really want to know about is you .”

Since I awoke, I’ve gone from hating this woman as much as I hated Domina to tolerating her, to wondering if I might someday let my guard down around her. But something about the sincerity of her statement combined with the silk in her voice makes some of the bricks disappear from the wall I’ve erected between us.

Although I was born in Hispania, I was in Rome long enough to consider myself a product of Rome. I give nothing without receiving something in return.

“Why don’t we play a game, you and me? For everything I tell you about ancient Rome…” I wonder if I’ll ever tire of teasing her about that. “You tell me something about this world I’ve dropped into.”

“Sure. That’s fair, Varro. What do you want to know?”

“Do you have any food that’s edible? I’m still starving. All I’ve had to eat in two thousand years is peaches.”

Laughter peels out of her, and her eyes crinkle in happiness. How have I gone from delighting in ideas of how to kill her to making jokes?