Forbidden to the Gladiator

by Greta Gilbert

  She attempted to scold herself. She should have known better than to remove her tunic. She should not have placed his head upon her stomach and she certainly should never have made bold to trace his finger along the contours of her body as she had done.

  She tried to feel regret, discomfort, shame. Instead she felt as if she could hear the blare of triumphal trumpets. She had aroused him. For the first time in her life a man wanted her. And not just a man, but a magnificent man.

  She looked up at him briefly. He was gazing down at her, his expression stony. But his eyes smouldered and she saw them move slightly to take in the bumps of her breasts. Her breasts! He was looking at them again. Perhaps he liked them. Then again, she had directed his finger across one of them only moments ago. What had she been thinking?

  She had not been thinking—that was the problem. She had told him that she wished to demonstrate the image she had woven into the carpet, but that was not the whole truth. What she really wanted was to be the woman in that image. Just for a moment, she had wanted to feel his head pressed against her stomach and his hands upon her hips and know what it was like to be wanted.

  He finished pouring the wine and popped an olive into his mouth. She thought of something clever to say, but could not keep her gaze from sliding downwards once again and quickly forgot whatever it was she had meant to say to fill the maddening silence.

  Surely he despised her now—first for cursing him, then for spying on him and now, apparently, for exciting him. Men did not like to be toyed with, or was that not the lesson of every divine story she had ever been told? She tried to steady herself, for she feared the wine and honey cakes were merely the sweet before the salt.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said. He offered her one of the cups, his fingers grazing hers. Their gazes met and she felt another pang of sensation low in her body. She drew the cup away quickly and he gave an amused grunt.

  Did he find what had just passed between them amusing? And what had passed between them, exactly? And why was her heart beating as if she had just run a mile?

  She studied the crimson contents of her cup. Her hands were shaking and the sloshing liquid was making her dizzier still, but she feared that if she looked up, she would find herself staring squarely at...

  He was handing her his own cup. ‘Hold this for a moment.’

  She gave an obsequious nod, now completely confused.

  He was placing the wine and plate of honey cakes on the floor, along with all the other edibles. ‘I can see that you are nervous,’ he was saying, ‘though you have no reason to fear me. And if we are going to have a conversation, I will not stand over you like Claudius at the judgement of Caractacus.’ He took back his cup and patted the high table. ‘You sit here.’

  ‘On the table?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I can sit upon the cursed table if you like, but I will not continue to stand before you like this.’ He glanced down at himself.

  Afraid he would say more, she nearly lunged herself up on to the slightly higher table and watched him take a seat in the chair that she had warmed for him. Now her sightline was occupied by his face, thank the gods. In the cascading daylight, his eyes sparkled like green gems.

  ‘Do you not wish to know why I sent for you?’ he asked.

  ‘I already know why you sent for me. You wish for me to lift the curse.’ There was a long silence and she watched her legs dangle from her high perch.

  ‘It is of no consequence to me whether or not you lift the curse.’

  She gulped her wine, trying to appear unmoved. ‘That is well, for I do not intend to lift it.’

  ‘Arria, it is not the curse that has kept me alive.’

  ‘Well, of course it is,’ said Arria. Perhaps he was testing her confidence in her ability as a sorceress.

  ‘I know that you are not a sorceress. You are not even a very good liar.’ Arria opened her mouth to protest, but a hiccup escaped instead.

  ‘Even if the curse did exist once,’ he continued, ‘it lifted many days ago at the Ludi Plebii of Tarsus, when I faced the Titan of Perinthus.’

  ‘The Titan of Perinthus?’ She could hardly believe it. The Thracian killer was considered one of the finest gladiators in the Empire. Arria gave a smug harrumph. ‘You survived the fight. Is that not proof enough that I have cursed you utterly?’

  ‘There were many opportunities for me to die, I assure you. I simply chose not to take them.’

  She shook her head dismissively, unwilling to concede.

  ‘Have you seen the Titan of Perinthus?’ he asked.

  In truth she had not, though she had heard the rumours. It was said that he was as tall as a camel and as strong as an ox, and that his roar shook the heavens.

  ‘I’m sure you delivered him a spectacular death.’

  ‘On the contrary, we battled for what must have been an hour, trading blows like two men playing dice. Finally, he pinned me to the sand. I was exhausted and his sword hovered over my neck in the promise of a fast, clean death. The spectators screamed and shouted, and I closed my eyes and waited to see the face of...someone I once loved.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And instead I saw your face.’

  Arria choked on her wine, coughed. ‘Apologies, what did you say?’

  ‘I said that I saw your face.’

  Arria frowned. In the moment before what he thought was his end, he had thought of her? There was the fluttering again—that flock of birds deep in her stomach. Against her wishes, they were taking flight—carrying her back to that day so long ago when she had gazed into a young man’s eyes and believed she saw her future. Take care, Arria, she told herself. Do not mistake friendliness for desire.

  ‘Why did you see my face?’ she asked carefully.

  ‘Because you had a message for me.’

  ‘What was the message?’

  ‘That if I died, then they would win.’

  And there it was—the whole truth. Thank the gods she had had the wisdom to await its revelation. The breath went out of her and the birds disappeared in puffs of feathers. It was not care or desire that had motivated his vision of her, but her wise words. She was not his heart’s desire, it seemed, but his mind’s counsellor.

  ‘The spectators were howling like animals, hungry to watch my blood pour out on to the sand. I could not let them win, Arria, so I rolled away from the Titan’s sword.’

  ‘Thank the gods.’

  ‘The sword stuck in the sand and the Titan stumbled. But I refused to kill him and the crowd grew angry at me. They hissed and howled. They spat and threw rubbish. As I passed close to the stands they poured barley water on my head.’

  ‘And you were not disheartened?’

  He grinned lavishly. ‘Their hatred only fuelled me. The more they howled, the stronger I became. I fought the Titan with unrelenting energy and there were many opportunities for me to strike a fatal blow. The crowd called for blood, but I refused them. Finally, the Titan threw down his sword and then so did I.’

  ‘And what did the crowd say about that?’ asked Arria.

  ‘They were stunned at first. Many stalked out of the amphitheatre in anger. The rest fell silent. After many moments, I perceived a group of guards making their way across the arena. I was certain they had been ordered to slay us both.’

  ‘Were you not terrified?’

  ‘Not at all. I did not even attempt to pick up my sword. Instead, a strange peace settled over me. I gazed up at the crowd and realised that we had won. The Titan and I had beaten them. By refusing to defeat each other, we had defeated everyone else.’

  Arria might have congratulated him, but the idea of Cal’s death—however triumphant—made her feel ill. ‘Thank the gods you were not killed.’

  ‘I believe we would have been, had it not been for the spectators, who slowly began to applaud us. I watched them rise t
o their feet in the stands in sombre adulation. It was as if we had given them something they did not even know they craved.’

  ‘Catharsis,’ said Arria absently.

  ‘Is that the name for it?’ asked Cal, not waiting for an answer. ‘Well, when the guards finally reached us, the crowd was shouting for mercy. The mayor delivered his decree and we were saved.’ He reached up and grasped Arria’s hand. ‘And it is all because of you, Arria. You were the one who inspired me to beat them at their own game. If you cursed me to life once, now you have convinced me to keep it.’

  They were glorious words, though she could focus on little else but the feel of his hand grasping hers and how easy her name had rolled off his tongue.

  ‘I will go on defying them, Arria, for as long as I can. I will fight, but I will not kill. I will hold a mirror to their faces and show them how ugly they are!’

  Arria squeezed his hand. The Satyr had been right. He was an honourable man—the most honourable she had ever known. But if he refused to kill, would he not eventually be overcome? An unnameable emotion plugged her throat.

  ‘What is it, Arria? What is wrong?’

  ‘What of your next foe? What if...?’ She could not even say it.

  ‘What if he is more difficult to subdue? Or what if I am faced with a host of foes? Cavalry? Lions, perhaps?’ He flashed a ferocious grin. ‘It is inevitable that I will die. It is the fate of all gladiators.’

  ‘Not all. You could be granted a rudius, could you not?’

  He laughed. ‘The wooden sword of freedom? Do you think the governor would give one of those to a gladiator who refuses to kill? Besides, the governor himself makes too much money on my battles to ever free me. Now at least I will die in defiance of them all.’

  ‘But you cannot die.’

  ‘I am a gladiator, Arria. I am meant to die.’

  ‘But...’ Arria sputtered. It was of no matter that he did not want her, she realised. What mattered was that she wanted him.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But you are my pigeon.’

  He frowned, then laughed. ‘No more wine for you!’

  She squeezed his hand hard, as if the strength contained within her fingers might alone be enough to save him. ‘You do not understand,’ she said. ‘I need you to stay alive.’

  ‘Do not fear.’ He smirked. ‘You will find some other source of wine and honey cakes.’

  She blinked and a tear rolled down her cheek. ‘But none so very sweet,’ she whispered.

  ‘Time is up,’ shouted the guard. Arria shook her head in frustration. ‘If only we could make an escape,’ she said.

  ‘And then what? We would be discovered, Arria, and punished in a way designed to break our will. There is no escape.’

  ‘How can you be so hopeless?’

  ‘I will show you how,’ he said. Slowly, he turned around. The broad expanse of his back appeared before her, filling her vision. She saw scars—layer upon layer of them. They criss-crossed his skin like a hideous net. Arria could practically hear the lash snapping as she gazed upon the history of violence, the geography of pain.

  How had she never noticed?

  ‘People see what they wish to see,’ he said, reading her thoughts, ‘not what is. You wish to see a way out. For a long time I did, too. But I am telling you that for a man like me, there is only one. You, on the other hand, must learn to endure. You must be patient. Your day of freedom will come.’

  The first guard had returned with a second and began unlocking the gate. Their time was running out.

  ‘When is your next battle?’

  ‘I will fight in the New Year Games of Pergamon in fifteen days. If I succeed, I will ask Brutus to purchase another meeting with you. Thus I can tell you the story of my defiance. If I live, I will become known as the gladiator who spurned the Roman Empire.’

  Arria did not dare to voice the question that hung like a poison cloud in the air. And if you die?

  He bent to her ear and whispered. ‘When the day comes, I do not want you to mourn me. Only remember me and endure.’

  He took her hands and helped her down from the table. A blade twisted inside her. She did not wish to remember Cal and endure. She wished to stay with Cal now, to wrap his arms around her and keep him whispering in her ear. But how?

  Think, Arria.

  How could she inspire Cal to keep himself alive? Apart from her advice, she had only one thing to offer and it seemed he did not want it, despite the...enthusiasm she had provoked in him. Still, she had only one life and she could no longer allow the twin demons of duty and despair to prevent her from living it.

  She bent to his ear and, this time, she was the one to whisper.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cal could see very little inside the subterranean barracks beneath the Pergamon circus, but he could feel the thunderous pounding of the hooves above and could hear the crowd roar as the chariots raced past. It had been over a year since he had fought at a circus and he had nearly forgotten how much noise a crowd of seventy thousand could make.

  If only they could somehow make it warmer. He jumped up and down on the cold stone floor. The first snow of the season had fallen the night before and had blanketed every city from Ephesus to Caesarea with a layer of white.

  Cal rubbed his bare limbs, wondering how Arria had endured the cold. Oppius was not the type to light braziers for slaves and Arria had likely huddled with the other slaves on some cold concrete floor, fighting the chill. The vision gave him a pain in his stomach.

  Above him, the spectators chanted from the stands, their breath visible in tiny puffs of steam. The Roman New Year was a time of celebration and purging, and the throngs had braved the cold in order to witness what was traditionally the bloodiest purge of them all—the New Year Games.

  Cal counted at least twenty other gladiators in the barracks—men brought in from gladiator training schools throughout the province. They clustered together according to ludus while their respective lanistas had gathered in a conspiratorial group at the back of the room.

  Cal tossed Felix a sympathetic grin as his friend puzzled over the blue swirls that had been painted on his chest.

  ‘I look like a damn barbarian,’ Felix said. He gestured to the other men. ‘We all do. What is the meaning of it?’

  ‘I believe we are meant to represent the enemy.’

  Felix shook his head. He was not the kind of man to show fear, but Cal could see it in his friend’s eyes as he considered the ragged fur kilt he had been issued. ‘Nor does Brutus give any instruction today,’ Felix observed. He did not need to give voice to the truth slowly descending upon all the men. They had not been given instruction, because they were all meant to die.

  The chariots rumbled past once again. When the dust finally settled, Cal caught sight of a bird circling high in the sky.

  He smiled to himself, thinking of Arria. What on earth could she have meant when she’d called him her pigeon? If he resembled a bird at all, it was a hawk or a falcon—something menacing and powerful. A bird of prey. But a pigeon? He felt himself begin to smile, then pushed the thought from his mind. Why should such things matter to a man standing on the brink of death?

  The hoofbeats finally ceased and outside the crowd roiled with impatience. The morning races had concluded and already Cal could hear the angry shouts of men brawling over which chariot team had won—the reds or the whites.

  Soon the midday executions would commence and the spectators would continue to brawl, swilling wine and ignoring the bodies hanging on crosses and dangling from ropes before them. It was absurd—reds versus whites—like a child’s game, yet more important, apparently, than life and death.

  ‘May Fortuna favour you today, Beast,’ said a young attendant, handing Cal a metal shoulder guard. He gave Cal a prolonged bow.

  ‘Gratitude, youth,’ Ca
l said, though he did not believe in Fortuna. Unless she came in the form of a big-eyed Roman woman who spouted curses and smelled of smoke and wool.

  Why did the thought of her plague him so? For fifteen whole days he had been unable to get her voice out of his head—or rather her whisper: ‘There is another thing we can do in defiance of our masters,’ she had told him just before she had departed. ‘Let my innocence be yours—not some greasy Roman lecher’s. Tell your master to purchase me for the night of your victory. Help me keep a small piece of my soul. Keep yourself alive. For me.’

  ‘Let my innocence be yours.’

  The words haunted him. They kept him awake at night, teasing his desire and testing his resolve. Not that he was unaccustomed to being propositioned. If the blood of a gladiator had the power to heal, then the gladiator himself could make a woman immortal, or so Roman matrons foolishly believed. They used him like priests used white bulls—to mate, then sacrifice to the glory of the sands.

  Surely Arria was no different than they, though in truth she was no longer even Roman—at least not in the eyes of the law. Her citizenship was revoked the moment her father had sold her into servitude. Nor was she a matron—quite the opposite. From her sad history, Cal guessed that Arria had spent her marriageable years taking in laundry, foraging for food and weaving at a loom, working to keep her family alive.

  She seemed to be the kind of Roman woman that he did not believe existed. In other words, she was good and it made his chest squeeze to think of her bending to the will of any man, let alone the kind of corrupt, twisted man who was likely to purchase her for her innocence.

  But that was not the real reason her proposition haunted him. It was how he had felt when she’d said it. As she’d whispered into his ear, the hairs on his arms had risen and his breath had caught in his throat. ‘Let my innocence be yours,’ she had whispered and the rush of lust that flooded his body had been almost too much to bear.

  It had scared him, in truth. She had scared him. If the guard had not yanked her away from him after she had made her bold request, he did not know what he would have done.