In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal

by Maksima, Nasia

  “Fight, damn you! Fight!” Bull Neck’s shout reverberated through the theatre.

  Frustration burned Lucan hotter than the punishing sun. I’m letting everyone down. He looked to the portico where he had sat with Hektor, where the other trainers watched their charges. All he glimpsed were dusky figures in the shade. Was Hektor even watching? Perhaps he’d turned away in shame.

  Anger suffused Lucan.

  Through it, came Hektor’s teachings. “Wait for the gap. It will appear. He’ll grow tired. Patience, Lucan.”

  Serenity poured into Lucan like cool water.

  Bull Neck preened and bellowed for the crowd as he danced in, cutting high for Lucan’s head. The gap came—an opening in Bull’s defense, his side exposed—but the backswing flashed in hard.

  This time, Lucan did not try for it. He stepped back, his footwork sure, his serenity bringing strength back to his body. He breathed deep and ignored the jeering, ignored the shouts and the rabble.

  He waited, drawing back and back, hope and Hektor filling his mind.

  One swing. Lucan took it on his sword, his shoulder stinging. Two swings. He ducked, and the blade grazed the top of his head. Golden hair fell around his face.

  Their weapons were blunted, but they could still wound, still kill. The Empress had said no deaths, but accidents happened.

  Three swings…

  Wait for the gap.

  He misjudged the backswing and took a deep nick along his shoulder. Blood trickled.

  Four swings. He blocked again. Bull Neck was tiring.

  Five swings—There!

  Lucan darted in, beating the slowing backslash. Make it count! He dealt Bull Neck a powerful slash to the side. Skin split and blood flowed, and Lucan followed with an elbow to the wound, knocking the wind from the bigger man.

  Bull Neck staggered back, wide open now, his shield and weapon out of position.

  Lucan stepped in, his shorter stature a boon in close quarters. His uppercut to Bull Neck’s jaw sent a crack resounding through the theatre. The bigger man stumbled and toppled to the sand, his sword flying from his grasp. The crowd gasped, then hushed.

  Lucan stood over his vanquished foe. “Do you beg the Mercy?”

  Bull Neck rolled, straining to catch his breath, to speak. His team urged forward, weapons at the ready.

  “Do you beg the Mercy?” Lucan eyed his own team. This was it—the moment he’d find out if his trust was well bought and paid for.

  Malice burned in Bull Neck’s eyes. “Take them!”

  The Priassin rushed forward, hooting and hollering.

  “On!” Jackal Smile screamed, his teeth bared.

  The crowd came to their feet. Sand and dust kicked up at arena center as the two teams converged and the fight erupted in full force.

  Caught in the epicenter, Lucan ducked the sweep of a buckler and smashed his opponent with the butt of his sword. The novice went down. Lucan tried for the novice’s buckler, but his flank filled up with enemies. He could not wrest it from the novice’s arm before he had to dance away.

  Outnumbered, he faced off against his opponents in the gritty theatre.

  He blocked a gladius with his own and shoved his opponent, a gangly kid with less arena experience, back three steps. Gangly staggered, but before Lucan could finish him, another novice leaped into the fray, guarding his ally with his spear and shield. Together, they stalked toward Lucan, both behind the shield. Lucan knew they would attack as soon as they spied a weakness.

  All around him was chaos and blood.

  At least four novices—Vulpinius and Priassin—struggled in the sand, moaning from minor wounds and bone breaks. Slashes of blood marred the sand.

  His two opponents corralled him.

  Behind them, Bull Neck stood in the midst of the fracas. He had regained his sword, and he fought like a daemon, swinging and shield-bashing. Two of Lucan’s team was on the ground before him.

  We are losing! Desperation made him jerk that way, but Gangly and Shield-and-Spear broke from their cover and attacked.

  Lucan parried the first blow, Gangly’s swing ringing off his sword like water off the song-crystals in Rilrune’s temple. He twisted. Too late! Fire printed pain across his ribs, and Shield-and-Spear drew back, his spear tip colored in blood.

  Blood dripped down his side, pooling into his loincloth, dripping onto his bare feet. Lucan pressed his hand to his ribs.

  The two flanked him. He glanced from one to the other. His defenses flagged. Beneath his hand, the skin began to tear. The wound was worse than he’d thought, deeper and more severe. Blood sluiced down his side even as he shoved his hand against it.

  The cheers from the crowd were deafening, and then his own heartbeat blotted out all sound.

  “No speed, no strength, no skill. Only appropriateness of attack,” Hektor said smoothly in Lucan’s mind.

  The two charged in.

  Smartly, Lucan sidestepped. He dealt Gangly a measured blow to the back of the neck, and the novice crumpled. With an angry shout, Shield-and Spear committed to one thrust, one strike meant to take Lucan from the fight, and perhaps from this life.

  Lucan leaped forward and over it—the crowd gasping—and thrust his fist into the novice’s face. Bone crunched, blood spattered, and the boy went down.

  Darting sideways, Lucan reached for a fallen shield. He dodged others as they rushed in to stop him. Grabbing up the shield, he raced toward Bull Neck.

  Jackal Smile was there, jabbing with his shortspear, trying to keep Bull Neck and a rat-faced novice at bay.

  Lucan slipped in front of him and raised the shield just as Bull Neck swung mightily. The blows rained down, ringing across the theatre.

  “Nice of you to join us.” Jackal Smile grinned grimly as he tucked in behind Lucan, his shortspear at the ready.

  They turned to Bull Neck and Rat Face. Two on two.

  The roar of the masses swelled.

  Lucan knew they could not outlast their opponents. He turned his head and pitched his voice low. “On my signal,” he whispered.

  Jackal Smile only smiled.

  Bellowing, Bull Neck rushed in, all fury and bravado, raising his sword.

  Lucan slung his shield at the man’s legs. A sharp crunch as the rim impacted his shins, and Bull Neck went down. Lucan was on him in a breath. To Lucan’s side, Jackal Smile traded blows with Rat Face. His grin flashed in the sunlight, and he jabbed downward, spearing the novice’s foot to the ground.

  Two sharp punches. Lucan raised his fist for another.

  “Mercy!” Bull Neck’s cry went up.

  Lucan grabbed Bull Neck’s sword and raised it. He preened and postured as the crowd railed and stomped, and yelled his name. “Golden! Golden! Golden!”

  Shouts of approval came from the trainers on the sides, and now Lucan realized that all the veteran gladiators were watching as well as the Heads of Houses to see if their investments had been worth all those denarii.

  Hektor would be in that crowd.

  Lucan’s knees went weak. He cursed himself. What was it about that man that undid him so? He lowered his arms, and a sharp, stabbing pain in his side stole his breath. A fresh gush of blood, Jackal Smile’s worried face, and then everything blurred and went red and gray.

  The next thing he knew, gentle arms had him, and his head rolled back onto a warm, firm chest. Fingers came blessedly cool on his forehead and smoothed his hair.

  “Don’t jostle him.” A smooth, rich baritone. Hektor. “I will carry him.”

  Suddenly, Lucan was being borne up into the light. The sun hurt, but he was shaded, cradled in strong arms.

  Despite the pain, Lucan felt the blush of shame rising to his cheeks. “I …failed…”

  “No.” An easy chuckle. “You won the day. You are well on your way to making your name.” Hektor’s words rumbled in his chest, and that rumble soothed Lucan. He held on to its smoothness, its power, let it grow inside him as Hektor carried him.

  Soon, the blar
e of the sun gave way to cool white curtains. Healers’ Haven? Each House had one—a place of rest and recuperation for wounded gladiators.

  But surely Lucan’s mind played tricks with him. His ears buzzed with the distant sounds of the Empress’s Theatre fading, the sounds of gladiators moving their charges, the rattle and clink of weapons being picked up, other fights beginning.

  And then he was laid on soft bedding, a downy pillow pushed beneath his head. His body hurt and ached. It had been so important for him to fight well, to make Hektor proud. He’d…won? His body wanted to tell him differently.

  Is this what victory feels like?

  He’d only trained with Hektor for a very short time, but he had wanted to make the primus palus proud of him. He only hoped. He grabbed for Hektor’s arm, but someone caught his hand and eased it to the bedding.

  Lucan turned his head and spied the insignia on the healer’s robes—two short swords crossed over a shield wreathed in laurel. He balked. House Actaeon. He should not be here. He tried to sit up, but Hektor gently urged him back down.

  “It’s all right, Lucan.”

  “But…” he spluttered. “House Vulpinius has its own healers.”

  Hektor’s rare smile was warm. “They are not as good as House Actaeon’s. Here.” He propped another pillow behind Lucan’s head, had him sit up, offered him water—real water from the healing wells of Rilrune’s Temple, not the brackish stuff normally given slaves.

  Lucan gulped greedily, and would have finished the entire jug, but Hektor eased him off. “There now. You’ll make yourself sick.”

  Gasping, Lucan laid back. Hektor leaned in and brushed the sweaty hair from his forehead. “Let them work.”

  Behind him, an array of healers looked on with trepidation. What a Vulpinius boy was doing in House Actaeon, they clearly could not guess.

  Lucan fumbled for Hektor’s hand. If it was a childish gesture, Hektor did not let on. He grasped Lucan’s fingers in return and soothed him with that smooth baritone. “There you are. Just lie back now.” Lucan relaxed. He didn’t care what the healers did to him as long as Hektor held his hand.

  Hektor directed the healers. He told them what to do, what herbs to mix, what unguent to make and with what consistency. They followed his orders and did nothing else. Lucan was poked and prodded, his robe pulled aside. A sweet-smelling, pungent odor filled the room as they smeared a cool paste on his wounds. The bleeding stopped, but the chill struck through Lucan, and made him arch his back and cry out.

  “Shhh… It will be well. The coldness will take the pain.” Hektor held Lucan’s hand and quieted him.

  That hand. Just that hand on Lucan made him feel like he was soaring.

  Soon, he discovered Hektor was right. The coldness numbed the pain as the healers worked. After a time, they backed away, putting aside their unguents, bandages, and bone needles. They left him with ten stitches in his side and a bandage wound round his middle.

  “Drink.” Hektor offered the clay jug again.

  Lucan drank more carefully this time and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Hektor also took a draught, and when he lowered the jug, the droplets of water clung to his lips and the slight stubble he always sported. One droplet fell to his collarbone and carved a path down over his pectoral before evaporating in the heat.

  Regret seized Lucan, for he’d wanted to tongue the droplet from Hektor’s glorious skin. His cock twitched beneath his tunic, and he pulled the covers over him, lest he start making a visible tent.

  Hektor chuckled, not unkindly, and Lucan had to look down, lest the desire in his eyes betray him.

  When Hektor took his hand away, Lucan was abruptly afraid the primus palus would leave him here, in a strange house, in a strange haven. “You know how to heal,” he blurted, hoping to engage Hektor so he would stay.

  Hektor’s smile was self-deprecating. “Yes, a little.”

  “Why?” Lucan was truly curious. “We have plenty of healers.” He gestured. “Even House Pineus had half a dozen.”

  Now it was Hektor’s turn to blush, a handsome scald that traveled up his neck to his ears. “Well,” he said, folding his hands atop the white sheets. “There comes a time when fighting isn’t everything, when the sound of glory and the rush of the crowd are not enough. And when we retire—”

  Lucan snorted. “If we retire.”

  Hektor laid his hand on Lucan’s arm, his blue eyes clear and direct. “When we retire, it is good to have a useful occupation.” He smiled, and those eyes lit up like the morning sky. “People do tend to get tired of old gladiators.”

  Lucan stared. “Old? You?”

  Hektor laughed again. “Yes, me.”

  “No.”

  “Rest. I must go for a time.”

  “No!” Lucan tugged down on Hektor’s hand until the man bowed his head. Suddenly, Lucan was gazing longingly into Hektor’s eyes, and Hektor was gazing into his.

  He almost saw the spark as it jumped between them.

  And then Hektor broke away.

  “Rest, Lucan.” He pressed his hand on Lucan’s chest and laid him back gently. He looked once more at Lucan, and Lucan knew it was not his imagination that Hektor let his hand linger.

  HEKTOR STRODE FROM Healers’ Haven. What was he thinking? Lucan was his charge, his novice, a hired job. Nothing more. And he was a Vulpinius. New or not, Stratos had to have gotten his claws into the boy. There was no way he wasn’t tainted by the slaver-priests of that fell house.

  Hektor shook his head, ran his fingers back along the silkiness of his ponytail. He tugged to shake loose any remaining sand from the Theatre. The boy had to be a decoy, some wicked diversion devised by Stratos to see that Hektor’s attention was divided.

  He knows I seek entry into the Grand Melee. He knows what I mean to do.

  But why would Stratos care?

  Frustrated, Hektor lengthened his stride. Never had he understood Stratos and his dark intents. He stepped out onto the tiers of House Actaeon. In these days—the days of the Empress—it did not ride as high as House Vulpinius, but the view was still breathtaking. More than three quarters of the Grand Palestra lay sprawled out in concentric circles below.

  The Empress’s Theatre was emptying out.

  Dusk was swiftly drawing down, and the crowds would be returning to their homes, leaving behind stray trash, abandoned clay tickets, and parchment programs. In the past, defiling the theatre was a crime punishable by death.

  These days, the Empress seemed not to care if the people wanted to defile their own living space.

  Arena was a huge walled city, built around the Grand Palestra as its hub. Everything stayed inside—the people, the livestock, even the refuse. Oh, they burned what they could, but it was never fast enough, the quotas allowed each house never large enough. And yet, it was impossible to blame any one group or house for the trash that trickled down to the lower levels of the Palestra. The houses each claimed a tier of the towering city, and each of the seven had at least one area with access to the Palestra.

  Pursuing litterers in a city filled with its own refuse would be nearly impossible. In the morning, the noxii would pick through the garbage and ferry what couldn’t be used to the lowest tiers where it would rot, forgotten like the poor who lived in the shadows of the seven great houses.

  It was the way of Arena.

  Hektor saluted as a group of praetorian guard passed, their pikes glinting in the silver twilight. Their plumed visors made them look more like one of House Lucia’s mechanized contraptions than man. They did the Empress’s bidding without question.

  Hektor ducked past and found the huge spiral stair winding down from House Actaeon to the training stables. Lucan would be fine resting where he was.

  In my house. What am I doing? Hektor could not shake the dread in his gut. Bringing a Vulpinius into House Actaeon. He had to be mad. After what Stratos had done to him? Hektor ran a hand along the back of his neck, feeling the expired mark like a t
attoo rising with the heat.

  The boy had performed well today. He’d shown bravery, courage, leadership. He could be great. Make a real name for himself.

  Hektor shook that thought off. Stop thinking of him. The Grand Melee was only two months away. He had never wanted it before. Always content to fight and win, to hear the glory of the crowd screaming his name and then to come back and luxuriate in Leander’s arms, in his presence, while he painted his landscapes of an idyllic countryside.

  They’d retire there, Leander had said. After he made his fortune.

  A month later he was dead.

  Hektor strode past other gladiators, the smells of men exerting themselves, the sweat and blood urging him on, urging him to remember as much as he wanted to forget. Leander’s touch, his kiss, the softness of him beneath Hektor, and the hardness as he pushed into him for the first time in the dark of night beneath a sweltering moon.

  He shoved the memories away, but not before a wild thought gripped him. You could have that again. With Lucan.

  No. He walked into the rack room and took his longspear from its place on the wall.

  He had to prepare, to train harder than he ever had. This time, he would not be anyone’s puppet. This time, he would fight for himself and take his opponents down to the Doomsayer’s Abyss with him.

  And damn the Empress and her bloody Spectacles.

  * * * *

  Stratos slipped from the alley between the Healers’ Haven and an array of small merchant booths. So, Hektor took the boy to House Actaeon. Interesting. A small smile formed on Stratos’s lips.

  He knew Hektor would never step one foot inside House Vulpinius again. Not after what happened with his lover. Poor Leander. Stratos shook his head in false ruefulness, and then darkness stole his mirth. He should not have fucked with what was mine.

  In the end, Alession’s Ebon charm had proved stronger than Hektor’s will, stronger than his love.

  And while Stratos had reveled in the proof that true love was weak, a fragile thing easily broken, he had to admit… Letting the spell on Hektor burn out just as Leander was breathing his last was probably a touch of cruelty that was beneath even him.

  Maybe. He paused at a merchant cart to sample some salted dates. The savory-sweet taste struck his tongue and made his mouth water.