A Gladiator's Oath

by Tanya Bird

  Nerva readied himself to leave. ‘Send word with your fee and what time you need her, and I will ensure she gets here.’

  He nodded a farewell to them all, and the men watched him walk away towards the exit.

  ‘An untrained slave girl won’t last more than a few moments in the arena,’ Brutus said with a sniff. ‘It’ll be an easy win for Fausta. I’ll make sure they’re matched.’

  ‘You should’ve said no,’ Remus said. ‘Anything happens to that girl, we’ll be to blame.’

  Brutus did not look the least bit worried. ‘We can’t control what happens in the arena. Even pompous fools like Nerva Papias know that. All you have to do is take his coin and throw her in. Return her in pieces if you have to.’ He looked at the men slumped in the shade, their skin slick with sweat. ‘Get those men on their feet,’ he added before leaving them.

  Remus ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘It is one fight,’ Felix said, trying to reassure his friend. ‘It is on Nerva if anything happens to her.’

  Remus glanced at him. ‘I told her about the games. I put the idea in her head.’

  Felix frowned. ‘When?’

  ‘Saw her at the macella a few weeks back. Suggested she go as a spectator.’

  Narrowing his gaze, Felix asked, ‘That is three encounters in a matter of weeks.’

  ‘So?’

  Felix raised his hands again. ‘It was just an observation. You never see a woman more than once, and you never remember her name.’

  ‘Nerva used her name.’

  Felix followed Remus’s gaze to where Fausta had been paired with one of the more experienced gladiators and was fearlessly fending him off despite the man being three times her own weight.

  ‘It is one fight, and it might teach the girl a few hard truths,’ Felix said.

  The dwarf spoke sense, and yet the entire thing had Remus on edge.

  ‘It is one fight,’ Felix said again.

  Remus looked down at his feet. ‘One fight.’

  Chapter 8

  Mila waited in the tunnel, a leg bouncing as she listened to a man tied to a post being torn apart by a small bear. Damnation ad bestias was a popular form of punishment used on runaway slaves. She refused to watch. The screaming told her everything she needed to know about what was happening. Heaven forbid the man die with dignity and the people not be entertained by his final moments.

  The Amphitheatrum Neronis was small in comparison to the Flavian Amphitheatre. The wooden structure had been built in place of the Amphitheatrum Statilii Tauri, which had burned down one hundred years earlier. While less impressive, it still held thousands of spectators who had gathered to watch the one-day spectacle. The noise made Mila’s head pulse.

  She turned her sword in her hand. In the other, she held a green shield, to contrast Fausta’s blue one, and a bronze helmet. She wore a matching green loincloth and a breastplate held in place with leather straps. She was ready—whatever that meant.

  Nerva had seen to everything, even paying the lanista of Ludus Magnus to manage her for the event. She insisted on paying him back, but she needed to win in order to do that. He told her he did not care about the money. Once he made the decision to help her, he had been all in, even making a public display of sending her off to “run errands” around the city for the day so she could disappear without raising suspicion.

  She had arrived at Ludus Magnus early in the morning and found an irritated Remus waiting for her.

  ‘If I’d known you were coming alone, and on foot, I’d have collected you,’ he had snapped.

  ‘What were you expecting? A litter dropping me at the gate?’

  He was clearly not in the mood for jokes, barely looking at her as he waved her into a cart where the others were waiting. He had gestured to the only remaining seat on the bench, but it was not appropriate for a slave to sit while a free man stood.

  ‘I will sit on the floor,’ she had said.

  ‘You’ll sit on the bench,’ he had replied, crouching in front of her.

  Everyone watched her take a seat, saying nothing.

  As the cart lurched forwards, Remus had looked at her properly for the first time, as though sensing her discomfort.

  ‘That’s Brutus Julius, lanista at Ludus Magnus.’ He gestured to the man at the far end. Keeping his voice low, he went around the rest of the group: a trainer named Titus, three male gladiators, and a blonde woman named Fausta who had looked rather pleased at the sight of her opponent.

  Upon arriving at the amphitheatre, Brutus had gone to his seat while Remus and Titus led the others through an archway. There was no procession, just a single guard escorting them. The chink of the iron chain attached to one of the men unsettled Mila. She had tried to distance herself from the noise, but Remus kept glancing back to check she was still behind him.

  Once they had reached the torch-lit room where the gladiators prepared, Fausta stripped down to nothing but a blue loincloth and her armour.

  ‘Here,’ Remus had said to Mila, holding out a breastplate. He turned his back to her. She dressed quickly, fumbling with the straps until he eventually turned back round, stepped closer, and took the straps from her, his fingers brushing her back while she held her breath.

  ‘Thank you for the breastplate,’ she said, not looking at him.

  ‘Shall I wear one also?’ Fausta asked, a smile on her face.

  Glancing at her, Remus had replied, ‘It might be a little late for modesty.’

  The others had laughed, helping Mila relax.

  The crowd cheered, pulling Mila from her thoughts. She watched the disembowelled criminal being dragged across the sand by a hook while two bestiarii tried to contain the bear. She glanced down at her shield, wishing she had two swords instead of one.

  ‘You need a shield,’ Remus said, emerging from the dark and apparently reading her thoughts.

  She looked up. ‘I can fight with anything.’

  ‘Except a net?’

  She gave a small smile. ‘Except a net. Or any form of rope, really.’

  He held out a piece of cloth for her.

  ‘What is that?’ she asked, laying her weapons and helmet down and taking it from him.

  ‘It goes under your helmet, extra padding. The swords might be blunt, but they’ll still hurt.’ She nodded. ‘Not too different from your street fights. You need to disarm her, and you need to do it quickly, before you tire. She’s fitter and stronger, and that’ll be a big advantage if the fight goes on too long.’

  She frowned at him. ‘Should you be helping me? I mean, I am fighting one of your own.’

  He looked around, his expression serious. ‘The moment you think you’ve lost, let her knock your weapons from your hands. There’s no point getting injured if the outcome is hopeless.’

  Mila stared at him. ‘Nothing is lost until it is. I am not surrendering to avoid a few knocks.’

  He looked out into the arena, his jaw working. ‘Suit yourself. If you lose, you exit via the Porta Sanavivari at the other end of the arena. The victor returns to this gate.’

  ‘The Porta Triumphalis,’ she said absently. ‘The gate of life.’

  He looked at her, his expression still tense. ‘Watch Fausta’s shield,’ he said, voice low. ‘She’ll use it to stun you, distract you. Her sword will follow.’

  Mila looked at him. ‘Are you a gambling man?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  She studied him. ‘If you were, who would you bet on?’

  Before he could answer, Titus and Fausta entered the tunnel, gazes going briefly to Mila. Remus took a few steps back, keeping his eyes forwards. They all stilled to listen as Fausta was introduced as the fiercest female to grace the arena since Mevia, the beast hunter. A guard on the other side opened the gate and Fausta jogged through it, the applause growing as she came into sight. Mila placed the cloth covering on her head and then wiped her hands on her loincloth. She bent, snatching up her helmet and sliding it on before grabbing her weap
ons. Her heart raced and her fingers flexed against wood and ivory. She barely heard her introduction, her nerves ringing in her ears.

  Remus turned and straightened her helmet. ‘Good luck.’

  She looked up at him. ‘The editor, what did he call me?’

  ‘Libertas,’ Remus replied, crossing his arms.

  She had not told him a name. ‘Goddess of freedom.’

  He nodded. ‘I thought it was better than dwarf slayer.’

  She gave a weak smile and faced forwards again. One foot in front of the other, she stepped beneath the archway and squinted against the harsh sun. She kept her gaze on Fausta, who paced, swinging her arms to loosen her muscles. Mila tried not to look around the full amphitheatre, aware of the curious gazes on her and the modest applause. She wondered where Nerva was and if his heart was pounding as hard as hers in that moment.

  ‘Gladiators ready!’ boomed the referee.

  Remus watched from behind the gate as the women circled one another like beasts before a kill.

  ‘Haven’t seen you this nervous before,’ Titus said, amused. ‘Your jaw’s doing that thing where it pulses.’

  Remus forced his mouth to go slack. ‘Fausta will be fine. She’s beaten women twice that size with six times that girl’s experience.’

  Titus smiled. ‘Yes, she has. But you’re not nervous for Fausta, are you?’

  Remus stiffened. ‘Shut your mouth before I do.’

  Titus laughed, shaking his head. ‘It’s always the pretty ones who soften you.’

  He was bracing for the first blow. ‘She’s here to earn coin, buy her freedom. Have you forgotten what it feels like to be a slave?’

  Titus shook his head. ‘There are easier ways for a pretty thing like that to get her freedom. Does her dominus prefer cock?’

  ‘Enough.’

  The women ran at one another, weapons clashing.

  ‘I know you’d like to see every slave freed, but the truth is Rome would fall apart without them,’ Titus went on, ignoring the warning.

  The roar of the crowd quietened him. The only thing Remus heard from that point on was the clash of steel and wood. He could have predicted every one of Fausta’s moves; after all, he had taught them to her. When her shield hit Mila, she was ready, blocking and then thrusting her body weight forwards to throw Fausta off balance.

  Remus shifted, his body tense as Fausta fought back, going through a sequence of movements he knew well, the ones he had drilled into her daily for the past two years. They were moves designed to swiftly flatten her opponent. Mila did not so much block the blows as dodge them, and he knew she would eventually tire—and lose.

  It did not take long for his prediction to come true. Mila slowed, only a little at first, but it threw her rhythm. She missed the cue of the shield as it smashed into her head and shoulder, the force of the blow sending her helmet flying. Remus saw fear in her eyes as her gaze swept the crowd. She was not afraid of Fausta, but of being exposed in front of her dominus. It was the distraction Fausta needed to end it. Her sword came from the side, and Mila turned, blocking it with her own while striking back. But Fausta was two moves ahead, ducking below Mila’s shield and then thrusting hers up into Mila’s face. Remus gripped the gate as blood sprayed from her mouth and her eyes rolled back in her head. Her legs gave out and she sank down into the sand, face up with her legs twisted beneath her. The crowd erupted, standing and cheering, the noise deafening.

  ‘Easy win,’ Titus said.

  ‘Open the gate,’ Remus called to the guard.

  The guard looked over, hesitated, and then seeing his expression, stepped up to open it.

  The heavy feeling in Remus’s gut grew the more the crowd cheered. As the gate separated, his eyes went to Fausta, assessing her.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ Titus asked.

  But Remus did not hear him. He watched as Fausta lifted one foot and looked around the crowd—they wanted more. His legs propelled him forwards, but it was too late. Fausta brought her foot down on Mila’s chest, and he could almost hear the crack of bone amid the cheering. His eyes widened at the sight of the slave girl, still and broken on the scalding sand.

  He broke into a run.

  Chapter 9

  The first thing Mila heard when she woke was arguing. She blinked against blinding light, her head pounding as she tried to figure out where she was. Her vision blurred and cleared, then blurred again. She gave up, closing her eyes. A memory surfaced: Fausta’s face, fierce and covered in sweat, her blue shield like a bolt of lightning against her. She tried again, forcing her eyes open and taking in the familiar surroundings of the room she shared with her mother and sister. Through the curtain she recognised Nerva’s silhouette, softened by the fabric, gesturing as he spoke. He only ever gestured when he was worked up.

  ‘You knew!’ Rufus shouted.

  That was when she noticed a second silhouette. Her dominus. Her father. It was also the moment she realised how much trouble she was in. Her eyes sank shut.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’ Rufus hissed.

  She opened her eyes, focusing on the sharp shadow of her dominus’s finger, pointed at Nerva’s face. She was not the only one in trouble.

  ‘It was one fight, and we agreed it would end there.’

  ‘You agreed?’ He was quiet a moment. ‘Is this your way of rebelling? Of living a life you cannot have?’

  Nerva shook his head. ‘Through Mila? That is ridiculous.’

  Silence for a moment. ‘Did her mother know about all this?’

  Mila held her breath.

  ‘She knew nothing of today,’ he replied, keeping his answer honest.

  Mila tried to move her tongue in her mouth but everything was stuck in place. That was when she became aware of the pain in her cheek, jaw, and gums. She slowly reached a hand up, feeling her swollen face and running a finger along her teeth to ensure they were still in place. Satisfied, she turned to look at the small table next to the bed where a jug and cup sat. Her mother always made sure they had fresh water available to them. She tried to sit up and a searing pain shot through her chest. She pressed her teeth together to stop from crying out. Looking down at her bandaged chest, she tried to recall how the injury happened. Nothing came.

  ‘This is on me,’ Nerva said, his tone calmer that time. ‘And you have my word it will not happen again.’

  Rufus exhaled, and Mila watched him shake his head. His resignation meant Nerva was almost in the clear. She pushed herself up into a seated position, wincing the entire time. Footsteps approached at a fast walk. She knew from nineteen years in the house that they did not belong to her mother or sister, that they were the footsteps of her domina—and she was not in a good mood.

  ‘Rufus, I will not have it,’ she said, coming to a stop next to her husband. ‘The entire city is laughing at us.’

  Mila watched them move like shadow puppets behind the fabric, but her thirst was distracting.

  ‘I am sorting it out,’ Rufus said, his tone tired. Conversations with his wife often had that effect on him.

  Unable to ignore her thirst any longer, Mila reached for the water, holding her breath in hope of minimising the pain. Her fingertips brushed the rim of the cup.

  ‘She is gone from this house,’ Aquila said, her tone like a knife. ‘The only reason she remains here is out of some twisted sense of obligation to her mother. Well, our kindness ran out the moment she brought shame on our household.’

  Mila froze, her heart skipping a few times.

  ‘Mother, you cannot be serious—’

  ‘I am perfectly serious. Dulcia can remain here, because the gods know no one else will take the useless girl, but Mila is gone the moment her worth is restored.’

  Smash.

  The cup fell to the floor and Nerva pulled the curtain back. The three of them took in the shards of ceramic sprayed across the floor, reaching all the way to their feet.

  Mila swallowed. ‘I will clean it up,’ she said, her voice
hoarse. The wounds in her mouth reopened and she tasted blood.

  Aquila turned on her heel and left.

  Chapter 10

  Boredom was the worst form of torture. Four weeks Mila was forced to remain in bed, amid the stifling July heat, tended by her mother and sister. They brought her porridge and apricots, and sat by her, humming while they sewed. When Mila complained about being confined, they showed no pity, instead bringing her small chores she could do sitting up in bed, like basic mending she could not mess up. Tertia left the garments in a pile on the table by the bed, never meeting her daughter’s gaze. Mila completed the work without complaint, knowing her mother’s harsh indifference stemmed from the pain she felt at losing one of her daughters. They were weeks away from being separated—and it was Mila’s fault.

  The moment she was fit enough to return to work, Mila was to be sold to Jovian Fadius to serve his wife, Prisca. Mila recalled the dinner party Prisca had hosted some weeks back. She had seemed disengaged, erratic, though pleasant enough. Most women of superior birth were in public; only time would tell. As much as she tried not to worry about what lay ahead, tried to be brave for the sake of her family, there was a heavy feeling in her gut that would not go away.

  To distract herself, she gave in to thoughts of Remus, replaying private moments in her mind, from the time in the laundry to their final words before she had entered the arena. She had not heard a word from him since.

  Her sister swept through the curtain carrying a tray of soup and a chunk of coarse bread. She placed it on the table next to the mending and sat at the foot of the bed, staring down at the floor.

  ‘It is not so bad,’ Mila said, swinging her legs carefully over the edge of the bed and picking up the bowl of soup. ‘At least I remain in the same district. I will probably run into you at the market.’

  ‘Only if Prisca Fadius sends you there,’ Dulcia said, her voice barely audible.

  ‘Dulcia, look at me.’ Her sister dragged her gaze up, eyes already brimming with tears. ‘It is a small hiccup in our plan, that is all. We will be free—’