by Tanya Bird
‘Oh’ was all she said at the sight of herself.
Blood had dried over her face and hair. She looked as though she had just returned from war—one she had lost.
Remus began splashing water up at her face, and when that proved to be ineffective, he pushed her entire head into the water. ‘Use your hands to wash it off.’
Instead, she punched him in the ribs and he released her. She came up gasping, red water dripping from her face.
‘Are you trying to drown me?’ she said, shoving him.
He laughed at her reaction. ‘You’ll know when I’m trying to drown you.’
She coughed and looked at him, her scowl eventually giving way to something resembling a smile. She let out her hair and then, closing her eyes, plunged her head back into the water.
He watched the water turn red around her. When she came up, hair clung to her face and neck. She sat next to him, brushing it with her fingers. He had never seen her with her hair out. He swallowed thickly. ‘Better?’
‘I imagine so.’ She flicked some water at him. ‘I suspect everything will hurt when I wake tomorrow.’
‘Especially your head.’
She smiled and the dimple reappeared. ‘I suspect Prisca might have gone easier on me if I had not washed away the afternoon.’
‘Told you, let me worry about Prisca.’
Her smile faded. ‘I cannot predict her reaction.’
‘I’ve had a few more years’ experience.’
Her eyes moved over his face. She was too close.
‘I thought I had you all figured out. Perhaps I was wrong.’
‘Don’t overthink it. What you see is what you get.’ He reached up to peel a few threads of hair off her cheek, and she closed her eyes as his fingertips brushed her skin.
‘You have great hands.’
He suppressed a smile. ‘Still drunk, then?’
‘Mmm.’
His gaze fell to her wet lips, slightly parted and angled perfectly if he were to take advantage of the situation. He looked away and stood, pulling her up with him. Her eyes snapped open at the movement.
‘Time to move,’ he said.
She was quiet for the rest of the journey, visibly sobering with each step.
He kept glancing across at her. ‘You all right?’ he asked, watching the transformation on her face, the small creases in her brow returning.
She nodded and reached up to plait her hair.
When they arrived at the house, Remus told Albaus to take her inside and have Sabina help her clean up properly. The bodyguard grunted and waited for Mila to start walking. She drew a breath and looked at Remus.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For everything.’
‘Tell Lady Prisca I’m waiting outside for her.’
She nodded before turning away, and he watched her walk inside. Even with a heavy bloodstain wrapping her middle, he could not help but admire the gentle slope of her hips. Her plait reached the middle of her back, leaving a wet trail all the way to her…
He looked away.
‘My husband will be home soon,’ Prisca said, her arms crossed in front of her. She glanced past him down the street, as though she were genuinely concerned about the fact. ‘He might assume I have taken you as a lover once again.’
‘Titus is dead,’ Remus said, skipping the games.
She tried to hide her shock. ‘At whose hand?’
‘A slave boy paired with Mila.’
‘I suppose that explains her appearance.’ She studied him. ‘Not the fact that she smells of wine though.’
He shrugged. ‘Her shoulder was dislocated. I put it back in. You’re lucky it was her shield arm.’
‘And that you were there—her saviour.’
He looked away tiredly. ‘You should be thanking me.’
‘For what? The girl is no longer your responsibility.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, you made sure of that.’ His gaze returned to her. ‘You need to decide what you want.’
She frowned. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘It’s time to put your pride aside and make smart decisions.’ He paused to ensure she was following. ‘You’re an intelligent woman, and you know I want her to win. Who better to train her than someone who wants the same thing you do?’
She looked past him. ‘You dare to come here and lecture me. Do not forget I knew you when you were nothing but a nameless slave.’
He exhaled. ‘You sound like them.’
She lifted her chin. ‘Like who?’
‘The people you hate. The ones who told you no, you can’t fight.’
She shifted. ‘Oh, do you mean the ones who told me not to let a slave into my bed because it would not end well?’
His expression did not change. ‘You’re married. How’d you think it would end?’
She pressed her lips together. ‘I thought we were having fun, but apparently everyone is against my happiness—even the slaves I lie with.’
‘I thought you were above all that snobbery, thought you saw me as just a man.’
‘I did.’ She swallowed. ‘And now you expect me to give my blessing as you take up with those who serve me.’
He looked at her. ‘I haven’t taken up with her.’ It was the truth, and she knew him well enough to recognise it. ‘Let me train Mila. You know I’m the best person to do it. Titus is dead, and if he hadn’t died, he’d have likely killed her by accident.’
She appeared to be thinking the suggestion over.
‘Do you want her to win?’ he asked. ‘Maybe the outcome’s not important to you.’
She took a moment to form her reply. ‘I want her to fight at her best, to mark people’s memories with her skill and courage, have them tell her story to their children. I want her to be memorable. That is all that is important to me. Live or die—that is up to her.’ Seeing his scepticism, she added, ‘But if she wins, I will keep my word. I will free her.’
He was silent a moment. ‘I’ll make sure she fights well, that she’s memorable. Just let me do my job.’
‘Since we are being honest…’ She watched him through painted lashes. ‘Tell me one thing. Do you have feelings for the girl?’
It was a fair question. ‘None that I’ve acted on.’
She nodded, and he watched the conflict play out on her face. It was easy for her to behave like the person with all the power, because she was. ‘And can you put aside those feelings in order to train her properly?’
Could he? He took a moment to assess. ‘Yes.’
A nod of resignation. Prisca’s body language dissolved into something less upper-class and more human.
‘You have two weeks. Fourteen days to transform her into a killer.’ Prisca’s eyes moved over him. ‘That’s if you want her to live.’
He glanced at the house. He needed her to live. And he wanted her freed. ‘She’s physically strong. Mentally… I’m not sure.’
Prisca nodded. ‘She has been sheltered, despite what she might believe. You will need to break her before, or she will break in the arena.’
‘I agree.’
They watched as two slave girls passed them on the street.
‘My husband is unaware of the nature of this fight. He thinks she is my muse, my outlet, a way to pass time so I might behave.’
‘Is he wrong?’
She stared down the road. ‘Yes.’
He thought she seemed quite vulnerable in that moment. ‘What is she, then?’
Her lips pressed together as she considered her answer. ‘She is… an escape.’
He thought that was a strange reply. ‘From your privileged life?’
She frowned at him. ‘You mock me.’
‘I wouldn’t dare. Prefer you onside.’
She studied him for the longest moment. ‘You had me onside once. We were quite a pair. Do you remember?’
He remembered. Though probably remembered it a little differently. He did not have the heart to say that. ‘We had to grow up eventually.’
<
br /> ‘I wish we could go back to that time.’
‘And be a slave again? No thanks.’
She hugged herself as though the air was cold. ‘I will send word to Brutus that you are to complete her training.’
He nodded. ‘Have a pleasant evening, Lady Prisca.’ He went to leave.
‘Remus.’
He turned to look at her. She seemed torn about whether to speak.
‘Do not let your feelings for the girl contribute to her death.’
There was a heart beating beneath all that expensive fabric after all.
‘We both want her to fight her best fight.’
As he walked away, Prisca’s gaze on his back, he knew she saw his overwhelming affection for Mila as clearly as he felt it. He was back in the arena, but this time defenceless. For the next two weeks, he would need to push down everything he felt, every tender thought, every urge.
Push them all the way down so he could keep her alive.
Chapter 23
When Mila arrived at Ludus Magnus the next day for training, she was surprised to see Fausta standing with Remus in the arena. Her head seemed to pound twofold in that moment. She stopped a safe distance away to remove her sandals and stola. As she handed them to Albaus, she tried to come up with a good reason not to go over there. She glanced back at the exit and saw a young boy enter the arena, arms loaded with weapons. Her heart pounded as she recognised him.
‘Nero!’ she called, breaking into a run.
The boy peeked around the side of the shields, a smile spreading on his face. He struggled to keep hold of the weapons as her arms wrapped around him.
‘Thank the gods,’ she whispered, planting a kiss on top of his head. ‘Are you all right?’ She pulled away to examine him.
‘Remus bought me,’ he said, eyes lit up. ‘I’m going to live here, at Ludus Magnus.’
‘Bought you to work,’ Remus said, walking towards them. ‘Take the weapons to Fausta.’ His tone was gentle, despite the serious expression.
As the boy rushed off, Mila smiled up at Remus, her gratitude so overwhelming that she felt the urge to hug him. He stared back at her with indifference.
‘A thousand thank yous to you, gladiator,’ she said, stepping closer.
He turned his body away. ‘No need. Got him cheap enough.’
She stayed where she was. ‘How?’
‘There was a rumour the boy was prone to fits.’
She studied him. ‘And who started the rumour?’
‘I did.’
She looked impressed. ‘Very clever.’
He did not look at her. ‘I knew he was a solid worker. Had some coin saved.’
She knew very well that was not the reason for the purchase. Clearing her throat, she asked, ‘So you bought him for his strong work ethic?’
‘Time to get to work.’ He gestured for her to move. ‘How’s the shoulder?’
She fell into step beside him. ‘A bit sore, like everything else.’ She glanced up at him but he continued to stare ahead. She was beginning to think it was intentional.
Fausta was jumping up and down on the spot, swinging her arms, warming her muscles. Her bleached hair was braided to one side and her eyes were painted black, making her appear more fierce than usual.
‘I am fighting Fausta today?’
Remus nodded. ‘You’ll be training with her right up until the games, working harder than before. You’ll finish each day in pain, wake in pain, and do it again. You’ll rest the day before your fight. Until then, I suggest you grow a thick skin.’
She took in his words, his body language, the lack of eye contact. She wondered what had changed overnight. ‘What did you say to Prisca yesterday? To make her agree?’
Remus’s jaw was tight and his attention focused on the weapons.
‘Told her I’d make sure you win.’
She waited for him to look at her, to say more. ‘I will win.’ When he did not reply, she asked, ‘Did you promise to be more like Titus? Is that what you are doing right now?’
Fausta let out a long whistle and stepped back from them.
Remus turned to Mila. ‘I suggest you keep your energy for the long afternoon ahead. You can start with thirty laps.’
The coldness in his tone made her stomach tighten. ‘Is Fausta also running thirty laps?’
‘Now,’ he said, taking a fast step towards her.
She stepped back, glancing at Albaus, who watched them with interest. Nero was next to him, speaking at a gallop, never pausing for breath. Fausta chuckled, shaking her head as Mila’s cheeks burned.
Mila collapsed on her hands and knees, retching water onto the sand. Her arms shook beneath her, and she was all too aware of everyone watching. She felt a small hand land on her back at the same time Nero’s bare feet appeared next to her. He held out a waterskin and she took it from him, rolling into a sitting position and keeping her eyes on her knees. She rinsed her mouth and spat the water onto the sand, then took another drink before handing it back to him.
‘Are we done, then?’ Fausta called, breathless as she wiped at her nose. Blood smeared her hand.
Remus had not moved from the spot he had anchored himself to, a sand platform from which he barked instructions, shouted at her, pointed out every way in which she was lacking until she had nothing left.
‘Mila,’ he called. ‘You done?’
She refused to look at him, desperately wanting to say, ‘No, let’s go again’. More than anything, she wished she could stand up like Fausta, with something left to give. ‘I’m done,’ she replied, her throat burning and voice hoarse. She let her forehead drop to her knees.
Remus walked over to her, and Nero scrambled out of his way.
‘You sure?’ he asked. ‘You’ve nothing left?’
She leaned forwards, spitting blood onto the sand. A tear ran down her cheek, exhaustion gripping her. She reached down to scoop sand over the mess and then looked up at him, eyes struggling to focus. ‘I have nothing left.’
She saw the briefest flash of pity, guilt perhaps, but it did not linger. He offered her his hand, and she wanted to slap it away. She would have if she had been able to get to her feet without help. He took hold of both arms and pulled her up, holding onto her for a moment until he was sure she could stand on her own. She was torn between pulling herself from his grip and the temptation to tip forwards and rest her head against him. The smell of him was so familiar now, the scent of sand and something uniquely him, something pleasant that lingered on her own skin after he touched her.
Remus signalled to Albaus to come and take her. Once the bodyguard was there, he let her go. ‘Same time tomorrow.’ He turned and walked away.
She watched him leave, nodding in response. No more walks through the city, their arms brushing. No more shared tarts. Now it was all turning away and indifferent glances.
‘Nero, collect the weapons,’ Remus called to the boy.
She gave Nero a weak smile before he ran off. He was the most resilient child she had ever met.
Her gaze went to Fausta, who seemed to be faring only slightly better than her: ghostly pale, with black paint streaking her cheeks.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Mila said to her.
The gladiator nodded, bending to lean on her knees. Mila discreetly took hold of Albaus’s arm as she turned away. She needed to make it out of the arena without falling down.
The following day, Fausta appeared well-slept and far too perky, a vast contrast to her own creaking bones and countless bruises. Mila began to wonder if she would survive the rest of her training.
As she was getting ready, Remus came over and handed her a bronze helmet.
‘You want me to wear it now?’
‘You’ll wear it every day from now on. Get used to the weight and feel of it, any restrictions on your vision. Soon you’ll forget you’re wearing it at all.’
She pulled the cloth over her hair before slipping the helmet on. ‘I doubt that.’ She already felt claustro
phobic.
Remus gave the helmet a few taps before walking away. Nero came running up to her, shield and sword in hand.
‘Are you all right?’ he whispered, handing the weapons to her.
Mila gave him a small smile. ‘Just a bit sore.’
The boy glanced over his shoulder at the others. ‘Don’t be fooled by Fausta. Watched her struggle out of bed this morning.’
Mila’s smile grew. ‘I woke feeling as though I had been trampled.’
Nero stepped closer in a conspiratorial manner. ‘He’s not angry at you, he’s sad.’
She shook her head, confused. ‘Who is sad?’
Another glance to ensure no one was listening. ‘I heard Remus tell Felix that he doesn’t want you to die, that he’ll do whatever it takes to save your life.’ Nero paused. ‘I want you to win too.’
Mila swallowed. ‘I have no intention of dying.’ She glanced at Remus. ‘And when I win, you can come live with me. I am much nicer than he is.’ She smiled to show she was joking.
Nero looked at his feet. ‘Remus says you’re not ready, not strong enough to win.’
Her lips pressed together as she tried not to let her reaction show. ‘Well, he is wrong.’ She ruffled the boy’s hair with her free hand. ‘I still have twelve days to prove it.’
He looked up, unsure.
‘Shall we begin?’ she called to the others with an edge to her tone. She tilted her head from side to side, trying to ease the tightness in her shoulders and neck.
Men shouted and weapons clashed around them. Fausta and Remus looked at one another while Albaus retreated to the wall.
‘The slave girl’s ready for more,’ Fausta said, a smile flickering.
Remus studied Mila for a moment. ‘Let’s begin.’
Chapter 24
Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven. The days slipped past in a blur of routine and hard work. She had shown up every afternoon, barely speaking a word to anyone other than Nero, bringing everything she could to each fight, and whenever Remus thought she was finished, she would try to give a little more. It was not uncommon for her to collapse or vomit during their session, but she made a point of getting up and getting on with it.
