A Gladiator's Oath

by Tanya Bird

  ‘Say that when I’m holding a sword,’ Fausta replied, resuming her pacing.

  Brutus came to a stop in front of Remus. ‘Where’s the girl?’

  Before Remus could reply, Mila came jogging down the path towards them. ‘Sorry,’ she called. ‘The entire city has come to a halt for the parade.’

  Brutus said nothing, walking off into the tunnel. The others followed after him, and Remus and Mila fell to the back of the group.

  ‘Here,’ Remus said, handing her helmet over. ‘Put it on.’ His eyes ran over her, inspecting her beneath torchlight. ‘Everything fit? You comfortable?’

  She looked down at the breastplate and the manica on her arm. ‘I think so.’

  Remus tugged at her belt, checking it was secure.

  ‘Do not get any ideas,’ she whispered.

  He released the belt. ‘How are you making jokes right now?’

  She shrugged. ‘Better jokes than tears.’

  They fell silent for a moment.

  ‘Did you eat?’ Remus asked suddenly, causing her to jump.

  ‘Yes.’

  He continued to stare at her. ‘You focused?’

  She turned, exasperated. ‘I am trying.’

  He nodded and faced forwards again, listening to the scuff of sandals on stone.

  ‘You know, something seemed off in the household this morning,’ she said, keeping her voice down.

  His gaze returned to her. ‘What do you mean?’

  Shaking her head, she replied, ‘I might be imagining things, but I feel as though everyone knows something I do not.’

  Remus’s arm brushed hers and she moved closer to him.

  ‘Did you ask Sabina?’

  ‘She has been acting strange for weeks. The confident woman I met all those weeks ago is gone. I keep waiting for her to fall apart at any moment. Just yesterday she was in tears, as though my death were a certainty.’

  He tried not to let his concern show. ‘Maybe she thinks it is. She’s wrong.’

  Keeping her eyes ahead, Mila slipped her warm hand into his and he gave it a squeeze. He felt a tightening in his throat. He could not lose her now.

  When daylight began to fill the tunnel, he released her hand, knowing they were close to the gate where the other gladiators would be waiting. The fighters would join the end of the procession as it moved into the arena, paraded in front of hungry spectators.

  There were four female fighters in total. Two were bestiarii—beast hunters. No helmets. No armour. Exotic costumes with breasts exposed. Silver scars on their backs and legs contrasted their dark skin. One of them had a nasty line reaching from her left armpit all the way to her nipple, likely from a razor-sharp claw. The pair would work together to kill whatever starved, provoked animals were released upon them.

  The third woman was Mila’s opponent, the Spaniard. She was lightly armoured, breasts partially covered and a helmet concealing her face. There was barely a scar or mark on her, which meant she was either inexperienced, or always won. Remus noticed Mila shifted next to him and he wished he could take her hand again, or least hand her a weapon to hold, to give her hands something to do. He caught her eye, cast in shadows from her helmet, and gave her a reassuring smile.

  They waited on the side while the procession entered the arena. Emperor Septimius Severus led the way, standing in a chariot pulled by four black horses. There were tamed zebras pulling decorated floats; in them, young men and women held poses, telling stories of the gods. Other exotic animals followed, their handlers clutching chains and whips. Dancers swirled in front of them, showering rose petals that were quickly swallowed up by the sand. Musicians marched, instruments deafening as they passed. And finally the Vestal Virgins, modest in every sense of the word.

  Mila turned to him, and he saw that her hands were shaking.

  ‘If I don’t make it out, tell my family—’

  He shook his head. ‘Shhh. Don’t.’ He leaned closer so she would hear over the music. ‘Get out of your own head. I know what these final moments feel like, but it’s part of your fight.’ He tapped his head. ‘So you need to keep your shield up. Hear me?’

  She swallowed, nodding.

  ‘Time to go,’ Brutus called to his fighters. ‘Grab your weapons. Join the back of the line.’

  The Spaniard grabbed her sword and red shield, contrasting Mila’s blue one. The bestiarii took up spears, the retiarius his net, dagger, and trident. The eques mounted his horse and Brutus passed weapons up to him.

  Chink, clank.

  Remus stepped back, joining Felix and Fausta, his eyes never leaving Mila. She looked like one of them, not like the first time she had entered the arena. She was carried out onto the sand by music, applause, and strong legs. Then she was gone.

  ‘I hope the gods heard your prayers this morning,’ Felix said.

  Remus glanced down at him. ‘Me too.’

  Chapter 27

  Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroque necari patior. That was the oath she had made upon arriving at Ludus Magnus all those weeks earlier. I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword. Remus had shaken his head; after all, she was Prisca’s plaything, protected by the Fadius name.

  He was so very wrong.

  As he settled into his seat at the top of the amphitheatre, almost touching the clouds, his gaze fell to Felix’s hands, gripping the edge of his seat. ‘Still afraid of heights, I see.’

  Felix rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, yes. We all know how amusing it is for you big people.’

  Fausta, seated on the other side of him, leaned forwards. ‘Do you remember the first time he climbed this high?’

  Remus nodded. ‘How could I forget? People were yelling at us to move the frozen dwarf out of everyone’s way.’

  Felix shook his head. ‘Go on, get all the jokes out now before the games begin.’

  Brutus cleared his throat and they all fell silent.

  The gladiators had formed ranks in front of the emperor. Mila was lost amid men and horses. Raising their arms, they all shouted, ‘Ave imperator morituri te salutant.’

  We who are about to die salute you.

  Remus looked away. How was he supposed to remain in his seat and watch her die when the scent of her still lingered on his skin? Her smile flashed in his mind—and that dimple—the one he had consumed just hours earlier. She had sat on top of him, legs wrapping his waist, head thrown back. He recalled the feel of her hair on his bare skin, her breath hot against his chest, the way her thighs had squeezed when—

  ‘Remus.’

  He looked at Felix, who was staring at him as though he had lost his mind. ‘Sorry, what?’

  Felix shook his head. ‘I was saying I thought Lady Prisca would be seated for her big moment.’

  Remus’s eyes went to the podium where the senators were gathered.

  ‘I saw her slave earlier,’ Fausta said. ‘So she’s here somewhere.’

  Felix turned to her. ‘Which slave?’

  ‘The one who wipes her arse.’

  ‘Ah,’ Felix replied, nodding. ‘I would just like to point out that when I was once part of a noble family, I wiped my own arse.’ He turned to Remus. ‘You have spent a lot of time with Prisca over the years. What say you on the subject?’

  Remus was searching for Prisca amid the white togas. ‘I didn’t go to the latrine with her, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  Music drifted up to them, organ and horn, building suspense for the performance that would soon begin. Remus leaned on his knees. ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘The woman you love is preparing to fight to the death,’ Felix said. ‘I would be rather surprised if you felt any other way.’

  Remus searched for Mila in the arena, but she was no longer there. Men in ridiculous armour had replaced her, carrying weapons good for nothing but theatrics.

  ‘It is an awful lot of time and coin to spend on a slave girl for one fight,’ Felix said.

  Fausta snorted. ‘If I were her, I
would buy fifteen such girls, a few for each games of the season. She’s a bored noblewoman past her prime. What would you have her do, take up weaving?’

  Remus turned to his friends. ‘I’m going to marry Mila. Today. The moment she’s free.’

  Felix’s jaw just about fell to his knees. He checked to see if Brutus was listening and found him talking to the man on the other side of him. Fausta leaned back, shaking her head. Felix closed his mouth.

  ‘Well, you could do a lot worse.’ He clapped Remus on the back. ‘Congratulations. Ignore Fausta, she is upset because she does not get a lot of marriage proposals.’

  ‘I get plenty of other proposals,’ she replied, not looking at them.

  Felix cast a knowing look at Remus. ‘It is true. She is like honeycomb.’

  They fell quiet, watching grown men roll about in the sand, their weapons ridiculous, their movements exaggerated. The crowd laughed around them.

  Next came the trained animals, mounted zebras, lion cubs with cute antics that made everyone sigh and laugh simultaneously. A full-grown lion quietened the crowd with one mighty roar. It was set free in the arena with a crocodile so large there was a collective intake of breath, temporarily emptying the stadium of air. When the crocodile lay dead, the starved lion hissed at the noisy crowd. Enter the bestiarii, drums alerting the crowd to their arrival. The animal put up a good fight, but it was the women who walked away, though not without injury. One woman’s calf was torn open, leaving a trail of blood as she limped from the arena.

  Afterwards, Emperor Septimius Severus ate food from silver trays while criminals were brought into the arena for execution. But not just any execution. The sentenced men were made to perform as stars of their own show—a tragedy ending with their inevitable death. Some were forced to fight one another. Never mind if they won, because the next man was sent in, and then the next, until exhaustion won and they became easy prey. When only one man remained, sweating, bloodied, and afraid, the ground opened up and a leopard emerged to finish the show.

  Remus sat still as the crowd applauded around him. ‘I need a walk.’

  Felix looked up. ‘Want me to come with you?’

  He shook his head, stepping past them and making his way down the steps into the walkways below. It would be Mila’s turn next, and he did not think he could sit still to watch. Instead, he wandered, the arena flashing in and out of view as he made his way along the passageways.

  ‘Libertas.’

  The word sounded throughout the amphitheatre.

  Remus stopped in an archway to watch Mila enter the arena. The spectators were still making their way back to their seats after using the latrines and filling their bellies with food. There was no way he could sit. His leg bounced beneath him and he rubbed a hand over his beard. Even at that distance he could see she was afraid. Sixty-five thousand people witnessing your death did that to a person. Applause. Whistling. Calls for her to bare her breasts. No surprises there.

  He closed his eyes a moment to gain control of himself. It did not help.

  ‘And all the way from Spain, her first fight in Rome, Hebe!’

  Remus watched the goddess of youth stride into the arena as though she had been born on the very sand she walked on.

  Hebe. It was to be a fight between gods, then.

  His heart sank at the sight of her. Her confidence suggested she was a much more experienced fighter, even if no one in Rome had heard of her. He wondered if he had done enough for Mila. She appeared to be wilting beneath the noise, weighed down by it.

  The summa rudis spoke to them, reminding them of the rules. With a stick in his hand and a whip at his hip, the referee was there to ensure the fight was fair and entertaining. Mila stared blankly at the man while Hebe’s gaze swept across the admiring crowd who cheered, impatient for action.

  ‘Remus,’ came a voice from behind.

  He turned to see Prisca’s body slave standing in the shadows, her face pale. ‘Sabina.’

  She remained there, staring at him. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Mila nodded at the referee. Whatever he was saying, she had to agree to it—so she did. He waved his stick a final time and stepped back, giving them space to fight, to kill. The crowd quietened. Mila softened her knees, focusing only on the woman in front of her. What had Remus told her? Imagine your sister is standing behind you, and your opponent wants her dead. Now go save your sister.

  She struck first, her polished sword reflecting the sun. Hebe’s body curved in order to avoid the weapon, her shield gliding gracefully overhead, as though it were a dance. Mila bent at the waist, striking at Hebe’s left calf, but her feet left the ground and she sliced only air. She raised her shield, knowing what would follow. Crash. Swords screeched. Mila sprang sideways, blocking her opponent, finding her rhythm.

  How easily it could all be over. Their weapons were not made of wood. The blades were not blunt.

  Mila slammed her shield into Hebe’s helmet, causing her to stumble. The spectators liked that, some jumping to their feet to show their approval. A gentle roar hummed around them. She felt slightly encouraged. Taking off at a run, she leapt, smashing aside the readied weapon with her shield while aiming her sword at the exposed shoulder above the breastplate. No such luck. Hebe’s shield rammed into her stomach and she tumbled into the sand, curled up in pain as feet landed on the ground next to her. She sucked in a breath.

  Shield up, Remus’s voice screamed in her mind.

  Up it went—just in time. She rolled once and scrambled to her feet, but her opponent’s shield knocked her down again. She swung a foot, grunting with the force, and took Hebe’s legs out from beneath her. The woman landed on her side in the sand. Mila sprang to her feet, heart pumping adrenaline through her. Hebe went to roll, but Mila brought her shield down on the woman’s head before she had a chance, stunning her. Blood poured out from beneath the helmet. At that angle it was possible she had broken her nose.

  Mila had a small window of opportunity, but she missed it, freezing for a moment. A foot smashed into her knee and Mila’s leg buckled. She was down on one knee in the sand and Hebe was back on her feet, blood dripping from her chin, eyes blazing through the slit of the helmet.

  Shield up.

  Mila blocked the sword coming at her thigh, an injury that would have finished her, and staggered onto her feet, cursing as pain shot up her leg. No, no, no. She kept her eyes on Hebe as she limped around for a moment, fingers tightening around her weapon.

  Her opponent lost patience and came at her again, and then again. Mila tried to focus, but her vision had blurred and Hebe’s moves were too swift.

  Shield up.

  A sword grazed her arm and she felt the sting, then blood running. They were out of their seats again. Nothing like a little blood to get the crowd riled up.

  A roar formed in Mila’s stomach, travelling up her throat, like acid in her mouth until she opened up to release it.

  Remus was torn between wanting to watch Mila fight and needing to know what Sabina had to say. ‘Speak,’ he said, walking over to her, his back to Mila.

  Sabina glanced past him. ‘If Mila should win, my domina has put her wishes on parchment. Everything is in the small chest beneath her bed.’

  The crowd roared and Remus spun around in panic. He had studied Mila for weeks—every tremble in her hands, every flexing muscle in her legs and arms. He worried if he looked away for too long, she would come undone. Get your goddamn shield up.

  He turned back to Sabina, trying to focus. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘So you know she kept her word.’

  The crowd was on their feet, and Remus turned to see Mila down on one knee. He took a step towards the archway. Get up. She did. He turned back to Sabina, maintaining the distance, his mind struggling. What was she saying to him? She stared at him with the hollow expression of one defeated.

  ‘I think she’ll win.’

  ‘Mila?’

  ‘Yes.’

  H
er expression did not match the words coming from her mouth.

  Remus’s gaze returned to the arena. He watched as Mila transformed before his eyes, a fire lighting within her, looking every bit the gladiator.

  ‘Where is your domina?’ he asked, turning back. He saw it then, her hands wrapped around a dagger. It was not pointed up but down, as though to harm herself. His feet moved towards her while trying to pull together the fragments of thoughts clashing about in his head. She took a step back and held up one hand.

  He stopped. ‘What are you doing?’ Searching her outstretched palm for an answer, he found only red skin from clutching a dagger for too long. He narrowed his eyes on her. ‘Where is Lady Prisca?’ It came out as a whisper, because the pieces were fitting together.

  She blinked and some tears escaped. ‘This is what she wanted, more than anything.’

  His gaze fell to the dagger. The crowd cheered again, but that time he did not turn to look. ‘What are you saying?’

  The dagger shook. Sabina’s free hand went over her mouth and she inhaled against it, looking past him to the arena. ‘When she dies, I must follow her into the next life.’

  Applause rang like an insistent bell behind him. He had to turn, had to check if she was still standing. She was—towering over Hebe, who lay panting at her feet, her sword and shield some distance from her. Mila was looking around, scared and unsure. Her shield fell to the ground, and both hands wrapped the hilt of her sword. She turned her head to the emperor.

  ‘Lugula!’ the people shouted. Kill her.

  Remus felt cold suddenly. He blinked once and faced the wall, leaning against it for support. ‘Hebe, the goddess of youth… She’s not from Spain, is she?’

  Sabina swallowed and shook her head. Blood pounded in his ears.

  ‘Mila’s about to kill her domina,’ Sabina said, her voice breaking at the confession she had held inside for so long.

  Remus knew Mila would never walk free. It would not matter what was written on parchment beneath Prisca’s bed.

  ‘Killing your domina is the worst form of crime. Mila will be put to death,’ he said aloud, miserable, mind racing. ‘And possibly every other slave in the household alongside her. It’s the law.’