In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal

by Maksima, Nasia

  Hektor never gave praise any longer, never a kind word or a smile. And then, in the evening, he would stalk into Lucan’s chambers, and they would fuck. Hektor would plow him from behind, Lucan’s face deep in the pillow, his ass in the air so Hektor could use him as he saw fit.

  Truth be told, Lucan adored the plowing. He loved his ass ridden hard and used, loved the feel of Hektor’s thick cock stretching him and the feel of his hot seed pouring into his hole. And sometimes, afterward, Hektor would cradle Lucan and hold him in the dark of night. He would kiss Lucan’s nape and brush his golden hair, and whisper soft things, things Lucan could not make out. He never asked what they were.

  A part of him didn’t want to know what ghosts Hektor Actaeon whispered into his hair.

  Lucan shook off those thoughts—the memory of Hektor’s hands on him, his dick in Lucan’s ass, teeth on Lucan’s nape—as he climbed the stairs to the school. The sound of weapons clashing was loud in the morning air, and on the wind came the shouts and cheers from the theatre as the bestiarii fought their beasts and whipped the crowds into an early frenzy.

  Shivers spiked down Lucan’s spine at the sight of Hektor.

  All his gear was laid out, sparkling and shining, and Lucan took back all the uncharitable things he had been thinking about the primus palus. Sure, they had trained hard, but without that training, Lucan might have received nothing more in the arena than a swift death. He had seen even veterans fall to exhaustion, to an unfortunate stumble or an unlucky injury.

  He had no illusions that the Empress’s Theatre was fair.

  “Come,” Hektor said in his gruff voice, and he gestured to Lucan’s piecemeal armor. It was customary for the mentors to dress their charges. More than once, the armories of the Ludus Magnii had been filled with the sounds of mentors and students losing control as fingers skimmed over hard pectorals and rippling abs, over corded biceps, and inevitably found their way to cock and balls and fucking, rutting in the cool shadowy corners of the school.

  Mentors often took their novices right before a fight, for it was Arenian belief that the stronger man’s seed would give strength to the lesser man. It was not uncommon for a novice to go out onto the field of battle with his mentor’s seed still drying on his thighs. This practice was what instigated the Victor’s Claim. It was not only the strong taking the weak. It was the strong empowering those weaker so that they might battle harder, fiercer. So that they might survive.

  For a moment Lucan gazed at Hektor, hoping for a quick plow, a fuck bent over the racks. Hoping the man might want him.

  But Hektor was more superstitious than religious. He did not believe in a release before battle. It made one dull, he always said. Best to keep sharp, in fighting form, and then to gain release in the Claim below.

  Lucan’s cock stirred, but it wanted no other man besides Hektor.

  He shivered as Hektor’s fingers skimmed his biceps, as he set the padding in place and then slid Lucan’s grandguard over his arm and lashed it in place. He bent and secured the padding to Lucan’s right leg, the one he would put forward when he cast his net.

  “They chose this for you,” Hektor was saying quietly, his voice gruff as he pulled tight on the padding. “The odds-makers chose the Gauntlet of Fire to see your mettle.”

  Lucan licked his lips. Gauntlet of Fire. It sounded hot and sexy on Hektor’s lips. And then came a flash of his man bent over a chariot, legs spread wide, his ass exposed, and Lucan pushing into it. He didn’t like topping, but for Hektor, he would. He wanted to be hard inside his man, filling Hektor’s ass, pumping until he came deep inside, until his cum stained Hektor’s thighs.

  Unused to such possessive feelings, Lucan swallowed hard. His hand felt numb on his trident as he picked it up. He glanced back at Hektor and could not help but want him. In that instance, he saw Hektor wanted him too.

  Lucan leaned in, but suspicion proved too strong.

  Hektor turned his head. “Come now. We’ll be late.”

  Blushing, Lucan went. He tried not to look at Hektor as they made the long march from House Vulpinius, down the spiraling stairwells and toward the deep bowl in the center of the Grand Palestra. The Empress’s Theatre. Already, the shouts and screams were rising.

  The Spectacles were becoming more visceral and bloody the closer they came to the Grand Melee. Elaborate sets, complex narrations, increased handicaps, pitfalls built into the arena itself.

  Just last week, the Empress had ordered all the cripples rounded up and sewn into fantastical costumes—mermaids, centaurs, fairies. Then they were released into the theatre, clubbed and cudgeled to death by the bestiarii.

  The masses had loved it.

  Tumult and cheering, smattered applause and insults thrown and then hurled back, swelled up from the amphitheatre. The clashing of weaponry rang out, two shouts from two different gladiators—one of triumph and one of despair.

  And then the thundering rumble as the crowd came to its feet. “To the sky! To the sky!”

  Despite the sweltering heat, Lucan suppressed a shiver. The day did not favor the loser.

  The hush came, and he pictured clearly the Empress standing, coming to the edge of her balcony, her handmaidens pulling back the filmy curtains. Beautiful and blind, clad all in white, her skin as fair as her raiment, her chestnut-brown hair flowing in a breeze that touched only her.

  Empress and executioner.

  The roar swelled again, and the sound of the iron horns signified the death of a warrior.

  Sudden shudders racked Lucan, and for a moment, he felt he would not be able to stop shaking. And then Hektor’s hand fell gently to his shoulder. Lucan drank in the warm strength of the man and took a deep breath. Hektor’s touch brought a modicum of sanity back, but Lucan did not dare touch him in return.

  He might never stop if he did. And Hektor Actaeon belonged to no man.

  The primus palus paused at the iron arch where mentors split from their students. Ahead, the vomitoria beckoned, its dark mouth seeming to pulse with malice.

  Hektor turned Lucan to face him. His sky-blue eyes were steadfast. “They chose this for you, Lucan. You can win it.”

  Wordlessly, Lucan nodded, and before his face could betray him, he turned and forced himself into a swift jog. He would not look back. He felt Hektor’s gaze on him.

  Lucan’s heart swelled. He would return to Hektor. Gauntlet of Fire. He would make it through and return to his man. His love. He raced to the end, raced from that thought, from the implications of it, from Hektor, to the barrier, and was surprised to see it already raising up, the sunlight flooding the dark tunnel.

  The Gates of Death pulled wide.

  The narrator raised his hands for silence, and the crowd hushed. This was a rare treat, for narrators were only employed for the grandest of Spectacles. “There he was, deep in enemy territory, in the Valley of Catarrh, surrounded by foul Morgeddons, with no way out. One man armed with only trident and net. I give you, fair people of Arena, the Gauntlet of Fire!”

  The vomitoria shook as the masses stomped their feet in time to the great, swelling strains of the water organ. The iron horns blared, sounding the beginning of the Spectacle.

  Lucan’s greatest yet.

  “Your chance, Lucan. Your chance.” He remembered Hektor’s words, but mostly he remembered the look in Hektor’s eyes—proud, certain, filled with love. Cerulean blue as the clearest day. Emotion burgeoned in Lucan’s heart.

  And then he was out in the blaze of day. Heat blasted him the moment he stepped out into the sand, and the brightness had him blinking rapidly, the scene before him a blur of shimmering heat and red-orange flares.

  Lucan blinked hard. I must not falter.

  The scene before him cleared. Now he saw it—barricades had been erected in the center of the theatre, a labyrinth of timber walls and supports. And all of it burning.

  Gauntlet of Fire, indeed.

  “Lucan! Lucan! Lucan!” Half the crowd was cheering for him, the others screami
ng for his death. Amid the thunder came a strange hissing.

  Hektor’s voice broke through the tumult. “Get moving!”

  An arrow hissed into the sand at Lucan’s feet. He danced back, casting wildly about. There! Four archers, one at each corner of the labyrinth, each drawing down on him.

  As one, they loosed.

  Panic jolting him, Lucan bolted toward the labyrinth. At least within the walls he would have some cover. Arrows hissed into the sand behind him. He ran, pumping his legs and arms, his net bouncing on his back, his grip on his trident slippery. A second volley chased after him, cutting up the sand to the delighted shrieks of the masses.

  Almost there, almost there…

  One shaft sank with a thock into the wood as he passed into the burning labyrinth.

  The narrator called for silence, and the throng hushed. “Our hero passes the threshold. But he has entered the volcanic wastes of the Valley of Catarrh where his enemies await!”

  Enemies? Of course. They would hunt him now.

  He shifted his net off his shoulder. The tight quarters would make casting it difficult. His aim would have to be flawless.

  Don’t stay in one place. The barriers towered above him, the wood crackling beneath crawling flames. Heat blasting him as a bank of embers broke and cascaded down. He stifled a cry and moved on. At every side, wood and fire blocked him in.

  Vaguely, he wondered if Hektor was worried, being unable to see him.

  Ahead, a four-way intersection. Holding his breath, he slipped across the open space. From the corner of his eye, a glimpse of piecemeal black armor—one of the “Morgeddons.”

  Lucan pressed as close to the wall as he dared and waited. Let him come to me.

  His heartbeat pounded louder than the crackling of fire. Oily black smoke threatened to choke him, but he forced himself lower, breathing shallow.

  Lucan strained to hear his opponent over the crack and break of flames, the roar of the crowd. He could not. The tip of a polearm emerged. He made himself wait. Another few inches. Soon he would see the man who wielded it.

  Without warning, the fake Morgeddon lashed out, catching Lucan’s arm and tearing it bloody. Blood spattered the hot wood, sizzling as it burned black. Lucan danced back. As soon as he stood, the command came from on high.

  “Loose!”

  The hiss of shafts sang through the air. He threw himself to the ground. The thock-thock-thock of arrows into wood was loud in his ears. He opened his eyes to see sandaled feet, the man above him, polearm hurtling down.

  At the last, Lucan rolled, desperate, and came to his feet. The man charged in, his intent to close the distance before Lucan could use his net clear and efficient. He bulled into Lucan, and they went down on the sand, the man on top, fists flying. Lucan’s trident fell to the ground. He covered his face to ward off the blows, his shoulder aching as sand ground into his wound. He shouted, gritted his teeth.

  “Lucan…Lucan!” The cries were diminishing as it went poorly with him.

  The man on top grinned, licking at the gap between his front teeth as he pummeled at Lucan’s arms, trying to land solid blows on his face and neck.

  No. Resolve burned in Lucan’s breast. He would not be so easily defeated. He grabbed Gap Tooth’s arm, yanking him close, and then heaved up and rolled him over. The man shouted as their positions reversed. Lucan struck twice—two clean shots that dazed the other gladiator—before leaping clear.

  In one move, he kicked Gap Tooth’s polearm up into his hands and brought it weltering down. The sharp crack of breaking wood was loud, and the man went limp on the ground.

  The sound of bowstrings creaking burred the air. “Loose!”

  Lucan darted for his net and snagged it a moment before a feathered shaft hissed into the sand at his feet. He ducked around the corner as more arrows sang. Heart pounding, he continued onward. The flames were roaring high now, the entire structure starting to go up in a blaze. He wouldn’t be able to stay in here much longer, and yet, he had to run the gauntlet.

  A glint of steel.

  He barely ducked, and the second gladiator’s blade slocked into the wood where he’d been standing. Instincts firing, Lucan kicked the man in the chest. He stumbled back, and Lucan cast his net.

  An easy, overhand cast. It landed square on the man, fouling his weapon and balance. Lucan stepped in.

  “Loose!”

  More arrows pierced the sand all around them. One crunched the wood at Lucan’s head, casting embers burning into his face. The sudden sear of heat blasted him. Protecting his face with both arms, he stumbled back.

  Agony pierced his shoulder. Blood sluiced down his shoulder, making him hot and cold all at once. The arrow weighed nothing, yet every movement was pure pain.

  His opponent was sloughing off the net.

  His eyes stinging, watering, Lucan shook his head. The man’s blow sent him into the wall. Fire and sparks kicked up all around him. He righted himself, dodged a swing from the blade, and then the gladiator’s kick sent him flying again into the wood.

  It broke beneath him in a flurry of fire, and he tumbled out onto the open sand.

  “Our hero is besieged!” the narrator cried out. “He is besieged!”

  The masses erupted into jeers and insults, their howling and stamping insistent.

  Lucan gained his feet, shaking off his daze. The stench of singed flesh and hair was thick, cloying in his nostrils. He watched as the rest of the labyrinth went up in flames. Some of the smaller passages began to crumble and collapse.

  The gauntlet! No! His heart jolted. If he didn’t run the gauntlet, the odds-makers would not vie in his favor. He took a step back toward it.

  His opponent blocked his path.

  The creak of bowstrings. Lucan spied the four archers on their platforms. Lowering his head, he dashed in. His opponent braced, sword at the ready. He thrust, but at the last, Lucan danced aside.

  He slapped the flat of the weapon, batting it out of the way. Blood trickled from his hand, but he grabbed the man and spun him.

  “Loose!”

  The man shuddered as four arrows sank into him.

  Before his body hit the ground, Lucan was away. In three strides, he was back at the hole where he’d emerged. The heat was nearly unbearable, the idea of entering back into the labyrinth against every instinct.

  I must. If I want to bring glory to my name.

  Besides, what would Hektor think if Lucan ran? Driven by glory and love, he pushed his way back into the labyrinth. Immediately, the roar of the fire drowned the roar of the crowd. Sparks flew and black smoke threatened to choke the consciousness from him. He fought for every bit of air and sanity. The gauntlet was a ruin of fire and sparks—only one long passageway still stood.

  The narrator was saying something, but Lucan could not hear.

  He felt rather than heard the bowstrings creak. He’d learned the timing.

  He jerked to one side, then the next. Lady Luck Viltheleon blessed him. The thock! thock! thock! of arrows into wood came alive all around him. The shaft at his back throbbed as though in sympathy. He took a second to tear it out and cast it away.

  Steeling his resolve, he turned to the far end of the gauntlet. Only a hundred feet to go. And there, at the end, a gleam of bronze grew brighter, bigger, blotting through the fire.

  A chariot. The narrator had been announcing a chariot.

  Lucan’s heart sank. There was no way he could face down a chariot alone, wounded, and with no weapons.

  The thundering of hooves shook the flaming wood structure as the chariot raced toward him. An arrow hissed by his cheek, casting blood across his vision. He squinted, one eye closed. A full-on charge against a chariot was foolhardy, but it was better than being cut down.

  Lucan charged toward it, his feet churning in the sand. He pushed himself, flexing his thighs, counting hoofbeats until the chariot was close enough.

  One more beat.

  One more beat.

  He crouch
ed. He had seen this move once, called a salmon leap. A man from the Fiondales had executed it. But it had not availed him. In the end, he’d gone down beneath the charioteer’s horses.

  That won’t be me. That won’t be me. The chariot galloped onward. Lucan spied a small buckler in the sand and scooped it up. Arrows hissed. He deflected one, and it broke, splinters flying into his hair. A second took him in the leg. He stumbled, the shaft bobbing with every pump of his legs.

  Lucan gritted his teeth. He would not fall. He would win the day.

  Through the fire and the collapsing gauntlet, he glimpsed Hektor. Impossibly.

  Hektor gave a grim nod.

  The chariot bore down upon Lucan. He crouched, taking the deepest breath he dared. His gaze fell to the horse’s hooves, churning the sand, the charioteer driving straight down for him.

  With a shout, Lucan leaped. He cleared the horse’s head by a fraction and landed hard, awkwardly, on the floor of the chariot. He was on his feet in an instant.

  The charioteer glanced over his shoulder. Calmly, he drew his gladius and stabbed. Lucan dodged to the side, but the blade grazed his ribs. Despite the sting, he held on. He punched the man in the neck, staggering him.

  They danced about each other in the small space as the chariot lurched wildly.

  The man thrust again, and Lucan dodged. Too slow. A nasty slice opened across his forearm. Blood dripped onto the chariot deck, making the wood slippery. He stumbled, then swung forward with the buckler.

  The rim caught the charioteer in the head, gashing him solidly. Blood sluiced down his face, and he dropped the gladius. The weapon rattled about at their feet, but before the man could reach for it, Lucan was on him with a knee to his midsection. The man punched Lucan in the ribs, and the air went out of him. He doubled over, and the charioteer hammer-fisted him in the back. Lucan went down to the deck hard, and the man kicked him. Pain erupted in Lucan’s side. The man kicked again, but Lucan caught the foot and dragged him down.