Forbidden to the Gladiator

by Greta Gilbert

‘What has he done to you, Arria?’

  It was the wrong question. What Cal should have been asking was what he himself had done to her. And he already knew the answer. He had failed her.

  He could still picture her shadowy form—how the guards had kicked her as she lay upon the ground. The governor himself had soon joined in, and then, to Cal’s amazement, the governor’s daughter. She had spat in Cal’s face before landing a formidable kick directly in Arria’s stomach.

  And Cal had been made to watch it all. He had kicked, bucked and screamed, but had been useless against the guards who had restrained him. As if he had ever been able to come to her aid. He had failed her, just as he had failed his wife so many years ago. He was a useless man and he deserved to die.

  ‘Tell me you will take the fall at the Artemesia Games. Please,’ she begged.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You will?’

  He had failed her in every way that a man could fail a woman, but die for her? That he could do. ‘I will. I promise.’

  He had granted her wish, yet she looked defeated, boneless. She was shaking her head, studying the floor. Finally, she stiffened, fashioning her words into cold stones. ‘Cal, I do not love you any more. Do you understand?’

  He had just promised to do her bidding, had he not? He was not expecting gratitude, but he sure as Hades was not expecting another blow. He shook his head. No, he did not understand.

  ‘I do not think you heard me, Cal,’ she said loudly, though he had obviously heard her. ‘I am trying to tell you that I no longer love you.’

  His confusion deepened. How could she be taking back her declaration of love, if she had never before made it? Her trickle of tears had become a flood. She cast a glance down the hall and it finally occurred to him that they were not alone. ‘Do you understand?’ she repeated.

  As an experiment, this time, he nodded his head.

  ‘I beg you to answer me,’ she said, as if he had given her no answer. Slowly, he began to understand the strange code in which she seemed to be speaking. She continued to repeat the phrase, her words echoing off the walls until they were transformed. I love you, she was trying to tell him. Forgive me.

  ‘Tell me you understand that I do not love you.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said at last. ‘I no longer love you, either.’

  And he would go on not loving her until the moment five days from now when he met his death.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Outside the ludus, the governor clapped Arria hard across her backside. ‘Well done, my Little Asp. Now that was not so very difficult, was it?’

  ‘I hate you,’ said Arria.

  ‘We are going to have to work hard on that attitude, though.’

  Arria searched her father’s eyes. She had done it for him, after all. In order to save her father’s life, she had just condemned the man she loved to death.

  The man she loved. It felt so natural to describe him that way, as if she were describing a member of her own family. There was her father, her mother, her brother and, ah, yes, Cal, the man she loved.

  And she did love him, though she had not realised it until moments ago, when she had strained to declare her love for the odious governor. Being forced to say the words aloud had made her think about the man to whom the sentiment truly applied.

  And that was Cal. It had always been Cal. As a young woman, she had dreamed of a strong, magnificent champion such as he—someone to protect her and to love her fiercely. As she grew older, she had dreamed of a caring, loyal husband who would never grow tired of her kisses. And as her marriageable years passed, she had pictured a secret companion—someone who stood beside her at her loom and told her not to despair, that hope remained, that it was as real as honey cakes.

  And then—suddenly—the man of her dreams had become real. She had discovered him inside a gladiator barracks on the worst night of her life. He was everything she had ever wanted: not a monster, but a man—a loyal, incorruptible, caring man who had made her feel like she was walking on air and not simply falling through it.

  She loved him, despite Epona’s warning, despite logic, despite his useless attempts to protect her from him. Her heart belonged to him. It had always belonged to him. And when, moments ago, she had finally recognised that fact, it had seemed the most important thing in the world to let him know.

  Though she could not tell if she had got through to him at all. And even if she had, the effort was pointless. Soon he would be going on the final journey—a journey that she had commanded him to make. And as for her heart, it was broken for ever.

  Now she truly understood what it meant to be commanded to kill. Her father had done it and so had her brother, and it had broken them. It had come close to breaking Cal, too.

  And now, by the gods, it was breaking her.

  Where was her father? She needed him now, for she had just done something unforgivable. She tried to catch his gaze, but his eyes were darting about, doing that thing they did just before he made a bet. But there were no bets to be made.

  Father, look at me. Tell me that Mother is well, that Brother is mending and that you will do your duty to them both.

  But her father did not look at her. Instead, he turned to the governor. ‘Honourable Governor, I would like to propose a bet. If the Beast of Britannia dies early at the Artemisia Games, you may have my daughter for ten more years, but if he is the last man standing, you must set her free.’

  No, Father!

  The governor’s eyes blazed. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said that I would like to propose a bet. That the Beast is the last man standing.’

  ‘But you just broke the rule,’ said the governor.

  ‘What rule, Governor?’

  ‘The rule that I explained when you entered the carriage.’ Her father cocked his head in confusion and the governor sighed. ‘No talking.’

  Arria’s father nodded. ‘Apologies, Governor Secundus,’ he said. He bowed silently.

  ‘Do you recall the punishment for breaking that particular rule?’

  Arria’s father shut his mouth, but it was too late. He had made his last bet. Time slowed. She saw the governor nod to the guard he called Lucius. Lucius lifted his sword and drew a long, bloody necklace across her father’s throat. Her father’s body collapsed to the ground.

  Day Six.

  Blackness.

  There was nothing but blackness. No sound. No light. Only a hard floor, a menacing heat and the memory of her father beneath the guard’s small blade. Perhaps she dreamed—dark, terrible dreams of her father’s demise. Over and over she watched him die. The look of fear. The attempt to flee. The blood—everywhere the blood. It flooded the streets of Ephesus and everybody cheered.

  Day Seven.

  Sadness, weight. A terrible weight. It crushed her body against the boiler room floor. The boiler attendant came and went. He kept the boiler fed and Arria clung to the ground, where the cooler air lingered. Though not always. Sometimes after his visits, the heat would explode into the room, devouring her strength, cooking her in place, until she found herself wishing for death.

  * * *

  She scratched the eighth black mark upon the floor.

  Thirst. There was only thirst now—a strange, withering thirst, along with the slow, terrifying realisation that she had not lost one beloved man, but two.

  Cal.

  He came to her in a dream.

  You must drink, he told her, or you let him win.

  There is no winning, she argued. There is only giving myself to him or to death. I choose death.

  Get up, Arria!

  She rose. The pitcher was empty. She dipped her hand into the dirty laundry water. Drink it, said Cal and she obeyed.

  Day Nine.

  She did not scratch her mark upon the floor. What was the point? The
laundry water was almost gone. Tomorrow Cal would die. A few days longer in this room and so would Arria.

  Cal was whispering in her ear again.

  Think, Arria!

  I cannot think.

  There was music in the governor’s garden above—the herald of a trumpet, followed by the jingle of tiny cymbals and the propulsive thump of a drum. Emperor Trajan had arrived with the dusk.

  The door swung open. The boiler man glared through the blurry waves of heat. His muddy voice sounded strange in her ears. ‘The governor wants to know if you have anything to tell him.’

  She shook her head, saying nothing. One more night. She could last one more night.

  The man sighed, opened the furnace with the long wooden pole and threw the logs in. Arria waited for the heat to descend.

  * * *

  When she awoke again, the sky was dark. The music had ceased and all the world was quiet. The boiler fire had dissipated, but it was still strong enough to cast a menacing glow about the room. Red shadows blanketed the wood pile and Arria watched in wonder as a small, furry creature emerged from beneath it.

  The mouse! He lived still. He endured. He padded softly across the concrete floor and came to a halt just beside Arria’s cheek. His whiskers twitched and when he spoke, his voice was like Cal’s.

  Why do you linger on the floor? he asked.

  The heat keeps me here. I cannot move beneath it.

  Rubbish.

  Arria opened her eye. The mouse was watching her steadily.

  You must try to escape, he said.

  There is no escape. The prison is not the boiler room. It is the Roman Empire itself.

  Who told you that?

  You did.

  I lied. There are limits even to Rome’s reach. What did Grandmother tell you?

  That there is always hope.

  That is right. Now think.

  I cannot. My mind is mash.

  That is not the Arria I know, the Arria I love.

  Do you love me, Cal? Do you really?

  There was no answer. Arria opened her eyes. The mouse was gone.

  She blinked. In a handful of hours Cal would be bowing before some garishly costumed foe, giving up his life.

  She could not let Cal die. If he did, then the last honourable man in the Roman Empire would be gone and along with him, Arria’s very soul.

  Arria sat up, cast her eyes about the room. Woodpile. Boiler grate. Water pitcher. Pole. The door to the boiler room was heavily bolted and there was certain to be a guard posted at the top of the stairs. There was no way out save the concrete hole in the ceiling, which was too small to accommodate anything more than a leg.

  Think. She closed her eyes, trying to picture freedom.

  She imagined a large pool of cool, clear water. She was swimming in it. It flowed over her limbs, washing them clean, and into her mouth, filling her with energy. In her vision, a mosaic stretched beneath her: a goddess holding a large empty urn.

  Arria floated slowly over the mosaic, marvelling at the urn’s clever lip, which surely doubled as a drain for the pool.

  A drain.

  She opened her eyes.

  The energy of hope surging through her, she poked the pole through the grate’s metal loop and pulled it open. Scalding air burned her face, but soon she was able to see into the boiler’s long throat.

  The fire inside the passageway was in embers, thank the gods. Beyond it, Arria could see the vast, empty space that stretched beneath the house. The Elysian Fields. That was what the cook had called the hypocaust, though to Arria’s mind it was more like a giant living creature, like a whale.

  She would need light to navigate the sprawling space. She searched through the woodpile and found a piece of wood to use as a torch. She had no real weapon—nothing to defend herself against the guards who would be positioned above. She glanced at the tall, thin pole she held in her hand. It was no spear, but it would have to do.

  She used the pole to clear the fire chamber of the embers, pushing them forward into the space beyond, then took a deep breath. The iron throat might have been clear of fuel, but it was still going to burn. She slapped her cheeks and counted to three, then dived through the fire chamber and into the sprawling hypocaust—the whale’s hot belly.

  There was so much smoke. It stung her eyes and filled her lungs with its acrid stench. Coughing, she found her makeshift torch and touched it to one of the glowing coals. Her pole in one hand and her torch in the other, she stepped forward into the infernal space.

  It was not long before she had discovered a perfectly round plug held in place by hinges. It had to be the drain to the atrium pool above. Holding the plug in place with her hands, she undid each of the hinges and then released it.

  The water cascaded down on to the floor with a soft sizzle and Arria’s heart began to throb. She prayed that there was no one above to witness the slow retreat of the pool’s water. Impulsively, she stepped beneath the steady stream and opened her mouth.

  She had never tasted water so sweet.

  The cascade became a trickle and she pulled herself through the drain hole, emerging from the goddess’s urn cleansed, energised and dripping wet. She had done it! She had escaped from the smouldering hell. Now she had only to escape from the lockless prison.

  She stepped into the atrium. The full moon shone through the cloudy glass and she peered around the shadowy hall in fear of witnesses. Eerie laughter resonated from the dining room at the far end of the pool, along with the soft chords of a lute. She needed to get out of this domus right now, while no one was watching and there was still enough night left to get her family out of Ephesus.

  But she knew they would not get far without money.

  The governor’s office was empty and, save for a small candle burning on a table at the far end of the room, mercifully dark. There was just enough light for Arria to glean the outline of the governor’s oil lamp, which sat at the corner of his desk just where she had hoped it would be.

  She tore off a piece of her soaked gown and tipped the lamp forward, pouring out the coins from its wide nozzle. She gathered the heavy purse into her fist and was turning to leave when she heard a deep, growling voice.

  ‘Burglar.’

  Arria froze. Squinting into the darkness, she made out a large figure reclining upon a couch near a flickering candle: a terrible, languorous dragon basking in the dark.

  She took a step backwards, her heart beating in her throat. He is too far away to catch me, she told herself.

  ‘Do you really think you can escape, Burglar?’ croaked the dragon.

  ‘I do not have a choice but to attempt it,’ she answered honestly. She took another tentative step backwards.

  He reached for the candle and lifted it to his face—his long-nosed, long-cheeked, utterly familiar face. He raised a brow. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked. The candlelight flashed on his deep purple tunic.

  Arria closed her eyes. Yes, she knew who he was. He was the leader of armies, the defeater of kings, the enslaver of men. He was not a dragon, but an eagle: the proud, divine leader of the Empire of Rome itself. ‘I do, Divine Emperor Trajan.’

  His expression was a mixture of derision and surprise, as if he were beholding a demon of his own making. ‘You know who I am, yet you continue to attempt escape?’

  Arria took another step backwards. Her whole body was shaking. ‘I do, Emperor Trajan.’

  ‘Do you not fear me, Burglar? Do you not fear the death I can deliver you with a simple command?’

  ‘I do not fear the death of my body, Emperor. I fear the death of my soul.’

  The Emperor paused. ‘An unexpected reply.’ He reached out an arm and worried the blanket hanging over him. ‘She is quite clever, Atticus, is she not?’

  A head appeared from beneath the drape of fabric. ‘She i
s indeed, Emperor.’

  Atticus? She watched Atticus bend close to the Emperor’s ear and whisper something she could not hear.

  ‘My lover tells me that you are a fine weaver,’ said Trajan.

  ‘Yes, Emperor.’

  ‘He says that Secundus has been torturing you for many days and that he means to break your will. Do you know what we do with wilful soldiers in the Roman army?’

  ‘You flog them,’ said Arria.

  ‘Indeed we do, for there is no room for wilfulness in the finest army the world has ever seen. Do you know how it feels to be flogged?’

  ‘I do, Emperor.’

  He flashed a look of bemusement. ‘And yet you persist. Why?’

  Arria paused. Why did she persist, really? ‘Because I am in love.’

  Something in the Emperor’s expression softened. ‘Well, are you not full of surprises? Tell me, Burglar, how did you manage to escape your dreary dungeon?’

  ‘I faced a trial of fire, then entered the belly of a whale.’

  The Emperor laughed. ‘And how did you emerge?’

  ‘I emerged... I emerged through its very blowhole.’

  The Emperor gave Atticus a playful shove. ‘You did not tell me this burglar was also a bard, Atticus.’ He returned the candle to the table and Arria spied the shadows of two thick-chested guards standing behind the couch.

  The Emperor reached for a goblet of wine and took a long drink. ‘You amuse me, Burglar. But you will not make it past the governor’s door guards. There are dozens of them on duty tonight and they’re armed with spears as well as swords. If they do not kill you, they will apprehend you, then Secundus will continue his torture with fresh delight. The man is a worm.’

  Arria did not know how to respond, so she simply agreed. ‘Yes, Emperor.’

  He laughed again—a wicked, delighted laugh that seemed to echo to the heavens—and it occurred to Arria that Rome would never be as great or as terrible as it was beneath the rule of this man.

  ‘Perhaps the guards will not apprehend you,’ he continued cheerfully. ‘Perhaps the gods mean for you to find your lost love. If that is the case, then I certainly will not be the one to stop you.’ He appeared to pull Atticus closer. ‘What say you, Atticus?’