The Champion

by Carla Capshaw

  To Tibi’s relief, Sergius arrived. She quickly told him what had happened and what she needed him to do. “You must take word to the Coliseum. Alexius has to be informed not to allow his opponents to use their contaminated weapons.”

  “I’ll gladly go, my lady,” Sergius said. “But what if I don’t make it before he enters the field?”

  “I considered that. You’ll have to use our archers to help him form a distance.”

  “What if none survive the earlier competition? Who will give him the advantage? I’m no good with a bow and arrows for certain.”

  “Are any of the other men?”

  “Those trained have already gone. The new recruits can try, but who knows if they can hit a moving target.”

  She took a trembling breath, dreading the agony of what she was about to commit to, but convinced nothing was too great a sacrifice to keep Alexius well. “I need you to take me to the Coliseum. And I’ll need a litter. One I can lie down in. I won’t be able to walk if I have to ride a horse or take a wagon.”

  “You can take mine,” Tiberia said. “I’ll have Velus arrange for me to go home another way.”

  The harried journey to the Coliseum left Tibi breathless and light-headed from pain. Desperate to find Alexius in time, she hurried as fast as her impaired body allowed. The movement required to cover her head with the cowl almost made her scream.

  Sergius took hold of her elbow. He guided her to the gladiator entrance and down into the cavernous world filled with the roar of wild animals and the fetid stench of men’s fear and humiliation.

  Tibi tugged her cloak around her and buried her nose in the thick material. The frenzied cheers of the mob blended with the shouted orders of armed guards herding various troupes of men.

  She recognized none of the faces. Her anxiety grew with every unfamiliar set they passed. “Are our men on the field?” she asked Sergius. “I don’t see any of them here.”

  Sergius led her to the editor’s office to inspect the roster. Forced to wait in the line outside the door, she fought a doomed battle with impatience. Finally their turn, she followed Sergius into the small, dusty hole. Peeling and ripped parchments from past competitions covered the walls.

  “Come in, Sergius. Bring the boy.” The editor waved them toward a chair and an upturned barrel he used for extra seating. Tibi recognized the rotund man. His name was Spurius, if her memory served from that first day when Alexius spoke with him.

  “We’re looking for my master or the archery troupe from the Ludus Maximus,” Sergius said. “Do you know where either of them are or when they’re expected to fight?”

  A wild cry from the mob filtered through a small window in the upper corner of the office. “The archers are on the field now. They’re part of Caesar’s army recreating the battle of Alesia.”

  The crowd exploded with more frenzied shouting. “I haven’t seen Alexius. As usual, when he fights he’s the draw of the day. He’ll go on once Vercingetorix and his Gallic horde fall.”

  Spurius led her out into the corridor. The press of men had intensified. She flinched from the jolts of pain the constant pushing and shoving inflicted on her back. The stench of unwashed bodies made her gag. How would they ever find Alexius in this crowd?

  A burst of crazed shouting and foot-stomping from the mob made the entire amphitheater tremble. Sergius stopped, his head cocked to one side. The human traffic flowed around them like water. “Listen, my lady.”

  Tibi heard nothing but the roar of the drunken mob above them and the ocean of voices surrounding them.

  “They’re announcing the master. He begins now!” Sergius started to break into a run. Tibi’s cry of pain when he jerked her forward reminded him of her injured state.

  “Go on without me,” she urged. “Try to speak to him before it’s too late.”

  “No, he’s already headed to the field. If I leave you, I fear I’ll never find you again.”

  Frantic, Tibi tried to rush, but her stiff muscles and the pitiless crowd stymied her efforts to reach the platforms that conveyed the gladiators up to the sandy floor of the arena. The closer they came to the staging area, the clearer she heard the announcements above them. The sound of Alexius’s name caused a riot of reaction throughout the arena. Feet stomped, sounding like thunder a mere story above her head.

  “There!” Sergius pointed to a lift in the center of the staging area that was just sliding into place. “He must have been on that one.”

  Panic surged through her. “We have to get to him.”

  “We’re too late! There’s nothing we can do now.”

  Unshed tears burned her eyes. “There has to be some way to warn him!”

  Sergius gripped her shoulders and forced her to look at him. “Alexius is a great champion. He practically lives in the sand. Three opponents are child’s play to him. He’ll be fine.”

  He was trying to help her stay calm, she realized, but the stress lining his face suggested that concern weighed heavily upon him. Alexius might not be worried about multiple opponents. Most likely he expected injury of one nature or the other, but poisoned blades were a different matter, making it possible for a flesh wound to become a death blow.

  Please, God, save him!

  “I’ll defend him,” she shouted frantically over the noise. “I’ll need to find a bow and arrows and a way onto the field.”

  “No, I can’t let you,” Sergius shouted back. “You’ve never killed anyone. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself afterward.”

  “I don’t have to kill,” she said, aware that she was capable of murder if it meant saving Alexius. “I only have to impair.”

  Hope lit Sergius’s eyes. “The guards won’t just allow you to walk into the arena and start shooting. Let me think!”

  Alexius rode the lift into the middle of the arena amidst the litany of accolades he’d earned over the years. A sea of golden sand and a tempest of crowd affection encircled him. Too familiar with every aspect of his surroundings, he realized that the only thing different today was his lack of anger.

  By this point in the battle, he was usually struggling to contain the thrashing beast within him, but this afternoon the creature seemed quiet. Not certain if he should be glad or concerned for his lack of response, he prayed that he didn’t need his fury to propel him to victory.

  An expert at most gladiator types, he often chose to fight as a Mirmillo. Today, with three opponents to face at once, he set aside the heavy, fish-crested helmet and shield for lighter weapons that were easier to wield. Out of habit, he tightened his grip on the Greek sword he favored and welcomed the impatient throb of blood in his veins.

  He removed his helmet and held it in the crook of his arm. A breeze cooled his skin. To the cheers of the mob, he saluted the emperor before turning to offer a similar gesture to Antonius in the first row of senators. A titter of jeers mingled with the thunder of cheers. The emperor nodded to Antonius in approval.

  The announcer’s voice carried across the throng of fifty thousand on the arena’s perfect acoustics. Informed of Alexius’s retirement, the mob booed in tandem and jumped to its feet in protest. Sword in hand, Alexius raised his arms, soothing the multitude while he acknowledged their disappointment.

  Once the other competitors were named—champions from a rival ludus—a door opened in the arena’s floor. Alexius strapped on his helmet and checked the placement of the thick leather greave on his arm.

  “Please, Lord,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can ask for Your help in this matter, but if so, let me be victorious this one last time.”

  Across the sand, the undertaker, dressed as Charon in a black hood and flowing cape, waited as usual in the shadows of the exit, ready to ferry the dead from the arena.

  Amid smoke, blaring trumpets and horns, three heavily armed men appeared. Their swords glinted in the sun. The swarm of buzzing spectators settled in to be entertained.

  Without warning, his adversaries attacked. Alexius fended off a
ll three with speed and unmatched skill, although one blade reached close enough to slice a hole in his tunic.

  He looked at the gap in the cloth. His anger finally surfaced. He blocked an attack, throwing himself back into the battle. Blow after blow, he defended his title as Rome’s premiere champion.

  The wild drunken masses cheered his every move and gasped or booed when the others came close to wounding him.

  For the crowd’s sake, he toyed with his opponents until the ache in his ribs warned him to pick one off. In a single strategic move he sliced an adversary’s upper arm, rendering the limb useless for at least a week. Seeing the wounded man fall, the pleased mob cheered louder.

  Alexius swiped up the finished man’s sword and tested its weight. Now armed as a Dimachaeri, he grinned and spun the blades like matched wheels on a chariot.

  He advanced. His rivals charged. The incited mob roared. Alexius felt the catch and pull of his blade through the flesh of his prey. He carried through with the blow just as his foe’s sword sliced close enough to ruffle his hair.

  With a second man down, Alexius faced his last challenger. The day’s rising heat and the throb in his ribs annoyed him. Armed as a Thracian, the third gladiator wore shin guards and carried a square shield along with his curved sword. The two men squared off like lions.

  “Are you ready to die?” the Thracian taunted.

  “Not particularly,” Alexius answered, grateful that he had more to live for than ever.

  “Neither am I.” The Thracian plowed across the sand. Sword struck sword in a violent clash of sharp, polished steel. Their muscles strained against the power of the other’s. Alexius’s wounded side began to burn. He felt his six-day-old stitches pull.

  The crowd began to chant Alexius’s name. His teeth bared as he held back the assault, he saw a gladius poised to strike reflected in the Thracian’s eyes.

  Death’s cold fingers brushed the back of Alexius’s neck. One of the wounded men had awakened. Using all of his reserves to force a turn in their positions, he exposed the Thracian’s back to the blade instead of his own.

  To his amazement, an arrow came from nowhere, piercing the shoulder of the revived attacker. The mob exploded with excitement. The already wounded man dropped his sword and fell to his knees, screaming. Alexius twisted the Thracian back around to use as a shield in case of more arrows. Seeing no archers he used his foot to hook the Thracian’s ankle. With a shove he pushed the man backward, tripping him. Alexius pressed the point of his sword against the fallen man’s jugular.

  Lusty chants for blood poisoned the air.

  “Do it,” the fallen man begged. “Just please be quick!”

  Breathing heavily, Alexius stepped back, choosing life instead of death. Ignoring the mixed results of the crowd’s approval, he glanced over his shoulder, more interested in the archer who’d helped him than he was in killing one of his adversaries.

  The undertaker remained an eerie presence near the exit, but there was no one else as far as he could see. His work complete, his agreement with Antonius honored and his marriage to Tibi secured, he saluted the emperor whose nod of approval released him from the field.

  With a silent prayer of thanks to God, he stabbed the point of his sword in the sand and turned his back on his old life, satisfied that he no longer needed violence to sustain him.

  Ignoring the pain in his side, he stalked to the exit. A glance at the undertaker revealed the thin, wizened face of a man beneath the cowl.

  He pushed through the gate, liberated to leave the sand once and for all. He collected Calisto from the stable and headed home, desperate to see Tibi.

  When he arrived at the ludus the sun was waning. The familiar hint of smoke permeated the air. He climbed the front steps and entered the domus. Except for servants cleaning the inner garden, the house seemed empty.

  Assuming that Velus had gone to the market or to run some other errand, he took the stairs two at a time and went straight to Tibi’s room.

  It was empty.

  “Tibi?” he called. No reply. Scowling, he headed back downstairs to the servants in the garden. “Where is my lady?” he asked.

  The servants’ chatter died abruptly. They exchanged puzzled glances. “We don’t know, master,” a boy called Scipio said.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Where’s Velus?”

  Scipio shrank back. “I don’t know that either, sir.”

  Old anxiety rose up to taunt him. “What of my guests?”

  “They left for the Forum several hours ago,” he said, clearly relieved he had at least that one answer to give him.

  Alexius turned and left. Tibi had to be with Velus. How like her to push herself when she didn’t have to. Her bruises were healing, but to his mind she’d rushed back to walking and now, leaving the house, much sooner than she needed to.

  He washed quickly and exchanged his dirty tunic for a clean one.

  A commotion on the lower floor sent him running down the stairs. The servants had lit lanterns along the stairwell. In the entry, he found Sergius carrying Tibi in his arms. His first instinct—to break his friend’s neck—he checked, noting that not all of his temper had fled yet. “What have you done to her?”

  “Nothing. This is all your doing.”

  “How so?” Stricken with worry, he took her light weight from Sergius with the greatest care.

  Sergius turned sheepish. “She swore me to silence.”

  “Silence? I’ll rip out your tongue if you want to stay silent!”

  Sergius glared at him. “She went to the arena and saved your wretched hide. The arrow that saved you was her doing. We bribed the undertaker to change places with her. She watched over you. The pain caused from using the bow was more than the poor girl could stand. She lost consciousness in the litter on the way back here.”

  Remorse filled him. He’d wanted so very much to be her champion. In the end, she’d turned out to be his. “What took you so long to return? I’ve been worried. I came home to find her gone. To see her this way again is beyond imagining.”

  “She insisted we check on the health of her men.”

  How like her. “And?”

  “They’ll all live, although each of them has some kind of wound or another.”

  Relieved, Alexius kissed her brow and started back up the stairs.

  “She’s all right, otherwise,” Serguis called to him. “You’re a lucky a man to have a woman as brave as that one.”

  In her room, he placed Tibi on her couch and covered her with the white cotton. He sat down in his usual chair in the dark and waited for her to wake up.

  He guessed it was nearly the sixth hour after midday when she began to stir. “Tibi? Can you hear me?”

  She nodded gingerly and winced when she turned her head on the pillow to look at him.

  “Why did you endanger yourself? Why didn’t you stay here where you’re safe?” he asked.

  She blinked. “Help me turn over.”

  “No, I rather like you captive if it means you can’t run off to the Coliseum behind my back.”

  Seeing her struggle, he relented and helped her onto her side, a pillow in front of her to balance against. “First, if anyone went behind anyone’s back, it was you behind mine. Why didn’t you tell me about your agreement with Antonius or that you planned to risk your life to force my father’s hand?”

  He tugged his fingers through his hair, not used to having to answer to anyone. “I didn’t go behind your back. I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “By doing so, you left my sister to carry the tale.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I couldn’t find you!”

  Seeing her tears made him cringe inside. He couldn’t even comfort her for fear of hurting her back. “Don’t cry, Tibi, please. There was no need for concern.”

  “No need…?” She wiped the moisture from her cheeks and scrubbed at her reddened eyes. “My father arranged for your opponents’ blades to be poisoned. One tiny scratch and you could have b
een lost to me forever.”

  Dazed, he sat back in the chair. “Tell me everything.”

  She did as he asked. “I had to shoot that man,” she said nearing the end of the story. The lamplight warmed her tear-streaked face as she unconsciously picked at her fingernail. “I only wounded him, and I know I’m probably wrong to say it, but I would have killed him if it meant saving you.”

  He slipped to his knees beside the couch and took hold of her nearest hand. “I can’t express how grateful I am that you care for me so much.”

  “I do more than care. I love you.”

  “And I love you. You’re mine and I’m yours, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “After today, I owe you my life, not that you didn’t own it already.”

  She leaned forward on her pillows and softly kissed his lips. “You don’t owe me anything. Look how many times you’ve rescued me in the past few weeks alone.”

  “I didn’t mind.” He grinned, his shock all but gone. “You keep me from boredom.”

  She stroked his cheek. “At this rate you’ll be the most entertained man alive.”

  “And once we wed I’ll be the most blessed.”

  Two weeks later, Tibi heard Velus call her name. “I’m here in the garden.” A month since she’d been caned, she was almost completely healed. She was preparing for her wedding in two days’ time. Adiona and Pelonia were helping her fuss over the details of her first stola, what flowers to use and the best meal to serve their wedding guests.

  “You have a visitor, my lady,” Velus said.

  “My sister?”

  “No. One of the master’s friends. A lady by the name of Dora.”

  “Dora? Of course, show her in.”

  Tibi stood and smoothed down her tunic as she followed the paths between the verdant flowerbeds. An older woman appeared with Velus in the arched doorway.

  “Finally, I see you,” Dora said, her Greek accent similar to that of Alexius, but thicker. “I was so sorry when Alexius told me you were ill.”