Chasing the Lion

by Nancy Kimball

  Stillness descended so complete he heard nothing but the gurgle of the fountain behind him for a long moment. Then leather whistled through the air and a hundred scorpions stung his back as the first lash fell. The second always hurt more because you’d been reminded what was coming. On the sixth, he lost the fight to keep his cries of agony silent. With the eighth, the burning in his eyes opened a deeper well of humiliation as tears wet his cheeks. The tenth he welcomed—because it marked the end.

  She came to him again and raised his head with both her hands. Her expression had softened, and she brushed his damp hair back from his forehead. Her fingertips traced his cheek bone. A touch so gentle he barely felt it, unlike the blood trickling over the skin of his back. “Now then,” she said softly. “Are you ready to be my friend?”

  If he gave in, the pain in his body would end, but a deeper ache would replace it. The pain of knowing he’d sacrificed the remnant of his honor as a man—and as a Tarquinius. That was enough of an answer. “No.”

  Valentina’s nostrils flared beneath her narrowed gaze. Behind her Brennus stood, watching and waiting, as did Marcus and Titus. Three men he’d commanded less than an hour ago.

  She crossed her arms again, studying him as she had that first day on the slave block. “Brennus, summon Fabricius Clavis. Make certain he brings a cart with him.”

  “Now, mistress?”

  “Yes. Tell him he’ll be well compensated. Tell the other slaves Jonathan stole a thousand sesterces from the master and fled. Any of them saying differently will share his fate. Am I understood?”

  Cyra.

  “Yes, Mistress.” Brennus disappeared into the villa. He would be headed to the stables for a mount and to issue Valentina’s edict. Cyra would be so afraid. Frona’s protective interference that had angered him earlier now gave him a small measure of reassurance. Frona would keep Cyra safe. That’s what mothers did. But what would become of him?

  “Guards.”

  Titus stepped forward. “Yes, Mistress?”

  “Beat him.”

  Marcus crept forward and stopped behind Titus. They should all three be playing knucklebones in the kitchen over bread and figs as they did almost every night, taunting Marcus for his inability to grow a full beard.

  “For how long?” Titus asked.

  If she could hear the tremor in his voice, she didn’t care. “Until I tell you to stop.”

  Conflict arm-wrestled in Titus’ eyes as he swallowed. A former gladiator like Marcus, they’d been made to do things far worse before the master bought them as bodyguards.

  Valentina stepped back, and Marcus took the place opposite Titus. He flipped his spear sideways, the tipped end behind him and watched Titus. So did Jonathan.

  Titus took a deep breath and turned his spear as well. His face emptied of all emotion and the shred of hope Jonathan had left died with the first blow.

  Chapter 9 – Sons

  Fabricius Clavis would have sent a curse-filled reply back with anyone else’s servant but Gaius and Valentina Florus. Traveling at night in the dark was dangerous, even with torchlight. The Florus servant had been silent the entire way and his servant was having a difficult time keeping the ox moving.

  At the villa, Valentina herself came to meet them. She carried something in her hand—that jingled. “I need you to dispose of a slave. My husband will believe he’s run away with the coin I’m about to pay you. Before you think about bribing me in the future to remain silent, consider I can hire an assassin as easily as I can hire you. So all we have to settle upon is price.”

  Were it not for her body, he would swear on Jupiter’s throne that she was a man. “Shall you name a price, I counter it, you offer a figure somewhere in the middle and I do the same until one of us agrees?”

  “No. You take this and do as I’ve instructed.” She extended her arm and a leather pouch dangled from her fist—a small leather pouch.

  “That doesn’t look like much.”

  “They’re aureii.”

  He smothered the surprise before it reached his face. “How many?”

  “Ten.”

  A thousand sesterces, nearly a year’s income in trade for him and two and a half times the amount a soldier collected a year. For keeping a secret and getting rid of a body?

  She lowered her arm and came close. So close he almost took a step back. “Do you agree to my terms? Or need I find someone to bury you both?”

  If he were Caesar, he would give her a legion and set her loose on any rebellious frontier. “I agree.”

  Valentina graced him with a smile and pressed the pouch into his hand. He opened it and counted the gold coins, making certain there was no silver or copper mixed in before tucking the pouch in his belt. Once content they’d closed their deal, she headed inside and her head servant turned his horse for the rear of the villa.

  The ox pawed at the stone pavers and his servant tugged its rope to quiet it. Burning the body like the barbarians would be fastest but would draw attention. Digging a hole would take longer and this time of year the ground was hard. The ludis of Caius Pullus was several miles west, but he was always in the market for fresh bodies for the lions he kept. Fabricius could go there, sell the dead slave for a few denarii, and be home before midday.

  Two formidable looking men in full armor with swords at their sides dragged the dead slave from the villa by his arms. The larger one lifted the man’s body and laid him in the ox cart, arranging his arms and legs with reverence while Valentina watched from the doorway.

  Fabricius nodded to them and climbed on the bench seat beside his servant. “To Caius Pullus’ ludis.”

  After nearly an hour on the road, losing the road once when night clouds covered the moon, nature called. Fabricius stood relieving himself on the side of the roadway thinking if this were anyone but Valentina Florus, he’d dump the slave’s body here and go home. But no one risked making an enemy of Gaius or Valentina Florus, so to the ludis of Caius Pullus he would go.

  “Master,” his slave called.

  Fabricius swung around and uttered a curse as he wet his sandal. “What?”

  “He opened his eyes.”

  He stomped back to the wagon, straightening his tunic. The man lay still as a fallen cedar under the dim light from the torch. “You’re mistaken.”

  Fabricius raised the bronze torch pole through the rings securing it to the cart and brought it closer to the young man. Beneath the dried blood and bruises was a handsome face and well-built frame. He seemed familiar, almost like the young man his son had… by the gods, it was him. Fabricius’ gut twisted as he thought of his son’s foolishness that had made this young Roman noble a slave. He turned away and reached for the wagon bench, hesitating at the last moment.

  This man was also someone’s son.

  He turned back and put two fingers to the slave’s throat. The drumming of his life was faint, but still there. “He’s still alive. We must make haste to the ludis.”

  Fabricius dropped the torch back into the holder and climbed to the bench seat. His servant goaded the ox on though, if possible, the creature seemed slower than before. All gladiator schools housed a medicus. Perhaps at the ludis they could save him. When they finally reached the great stone walls of the gladiator school, lather dripped from the ox and Fabricius’ brow.

  The sky was turning pink with the promise of sun and sounds of combat already filled the compound. A large iron gate opened and the sight of thirty or more men armed with weapons, even wooden ones, kept Fabricius on edge beside his servant.

  Caius Pullus stood on a balcony, leaning on the top edge with both arms. “What do you bring me that would wake even you at this hour?”

  “An opportunity. But you should hasten,” Fabricius yelled up at the lanista.

  Caius disappeared from the balcony, and Fabricius climbed down from the bench. The hard packed sand stirred very little beneath him, tread by hundreds of men training to fight and kill. The slave looked worse in the hint of dayligh
t, but life still drummed in his throat.

  The lanista was in a simple tunic and plain leather belt as he approached. Normally when Fabricius saw him in the city, he was more richly dressed. Caius reached them and looked inside the walls of the cart. He raised the young man’s arm and then dropped it before turning toward him. “How long has he been dead?”

  “He’s still alive.”

  “I won’t pay extra for that.”

  “I didn’t bring him for the lions. I want you to save him, if you can.”

  “The ferryman has him by the leg and he smells dead already.” Caius studied him, his thumb to his chin. “A shame though. I’ve traded in flesh more than half my life, and even crushed I can see he was well formed.”

  “He can fight.”

  Caius snorted. “What’s left of him disagrees.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’ve traded him before. Four years ago in Rome. On the journey to Capua he ran at every opportunity. It took countless beatings for days to subdue him, and every time it took more men to regain control of him. He was learning to fight without knowing it.”

  “How did you come by him again?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  “He’s stolen?”

  “No.” Not from his last master anyway. “I give you my oath of honor.”

  Caius continued to examine the slave and, from his expression, he was wavering.

  Fabricius would need to tread carefully. Caius Pullus was known for greed that rivaled his and a temper worse than Valentina possessed. “His face alone would be worth trying to save. You know the only thing women love more than a gladiator who can actually fight is a handsome gladiator that can fight.”

  It was a long moment, one the slave didn’t have, while Caius decided. “Fifty sesterces.”

  “Done.”

  Caius grinned. “I would have paid a hundred.”

  “I would have given him to you.”

  The grin disappeared. “Let me get him to the medicus and I’ll send your coin out.”

  “My gratitude.” Fabricius had done what he could for the slave. The rest remained for the gods to decide.

  Tender grass cushioned Jonathan’s back where he lay sprawled in the shade of a great olive tree. The vast, unspoiled countryside with its clear, fast moving stream and wildflowers was so peaceful that after a time, he no longer cared he couldn’t remember how he came to be here.

  Nessa had worked beside Quintus for nine years, four of them in this ludis, and never seen a body so brutalized. “What do you think they used?”

  “A pole of some kind.” Quintus scrubbed at more of the dried blood on the slave’s back. “Before or after they flogged him. They knew what they were doing.”

  “Killing him?”

  “That’s what I can’t fathom. There is very little coloring of the skin here.” Quintus pointed between the man’s hip and lower ribs. “And here. Front or back. Instead of the prime area to inflict the most damage, they beat him everywhere else, where the largest bones would give him some protection.”

  She poured fresh water into the bowl for Quintus. That whoever had done this did so with an expert hand deepened her anger at them. Every shade of an evening sky striped his chest, back, thighs, and shoulders. It hurt her to look at him, especially his face and head.

  Quintus would finish cleaning the stripes on the man’s back and close the four deepest wounds with pinched metal thorns. Not as tight a seal as suturing them with horsehair, but much faster. He paused with the cloth and pressed his fingers below the man’s jaw. “He’s crossing the Styx.”

  She never argued Quintus’ pagan beliefs, but knew he meant the man was crossing the river in Greek lore that separated the world of the living from the dead. They’d already closed the wound on the back of his head, and the man hadn’t stirred. Not a whimper, a blink, or twitch. “Are you giving up?”

  “Of course not.” Quintus glanced up at her. “Not because Caius demands he live but because by everything I know, he should already be dead.”

  Nessa had felt it too, unease within when he’d been carried in and dumped belly-down on their table like a sack of grain. She and Quintus shared the same goal to alleviate suffering and preserve life. Strange in this place, but she’d felt something stronger than ever before that this man must survive. At the shelves, she brought down the jar of powdered ram’s horn and the various ground herbs to mix the healing drink Quintus would want next.

  God, place Your hand upon him. Bind up his wounds and deliver him from death.

  Jonathan waded into the stream. The sharp coolness of the water was refreshing more than uncomfortable. Smooth rocks and firm mud made walking to the center easy. It made no sense that the current slowed the deeper he waded in, yet it did, as if inviting him to swim. He turned his face to the warmth of the sun and floated on his back, lost in the purest serenity he had ever known.

  Nessa poured water and wine into a new bowl as she had hundreds of times, forming the base for the healing drink.

  Quintus had closed the wounds but the man had lost so much blood, much of it under his skin and from his head. “As fast as the knock in his throat is, I should be able to see it in his neck, not have to press deep to find it. His humours are badly unbalanced.”

  Of course they were. He’d been allowed to bleed freely, and it was unlikely he’d been given water or wine for as long.

  “Lay a sheet of new linen on the table there. We need to get him on his back now.”

  She’d just finished when Quintus returned with the two slaves who’d carried the man in.

  “Put him on his back over here and be gentle with him, or Caius will hear of it.”

  The men did, taking greater care with the man’s body this time, though he still didn’t stir. Nessa waited until they left before taking another square of linen to drape over his waist. Quintus allowed her modesty when it didn’t interfere with their work, and for that she was grateful. She returned to the bowls to complete mixing the solution Quintus would need soon. Two more measures of—

  “Nessa.” The urgency in Quintus’ voice quickened her chest as she turned from the shelves. His fingers were pressed deep into the man’s neck. “Entreat your God.”

  He always said that as a last remedy, though it was her first and she already had. She dropped the pestle into the bowl and rushed to place both her hands atop the slave’s head, careful of the metal thorns pressed into his scalp. “May I do so aloud?”

  They were alone but he still scanned the room, lingering on the doorway. “If it will help.”

  A faint voice penetrated the water covering Jonathan’s ears. Had someone joined him in the stream? He pulled upright to listen and a dull ache passed across his back. The voice grew louder from somewhere beyond the mountains, or maybe the sky, but how could that be? He knew that voice. It belonged to his mother. Where was he?

  The skin of his temples where Nessa’s fingers rested was warming. That could be him taking her own heat instead of life returning from within, so she would keep her eyes closed and her petition before God until something happened.

  “Lord, not a sparrow falls to the ground You do not see. Deliver this man in need of Your healing. Hear the prayer of Your servant. Reveal Your greatness by Your mighty hand and show Your power as in the days of the prophets and kings. Lord, breathe life into him again as in the beginning.”

  Jonathan craned his head, with the water still swirling past him. It was not his mother’s voice, but it was her words. Words of prayer familiar from his youth, yet the tenor and pitch of the woman’s voice speaking them were not. The louder the voice grew the sharper the discomfort in his back, spreading now to the rest of his body. The pain centered in his head like it was being crushed by a millstone, so strong he clutched it while his knees buckled. What was happening? He turned for the shore and stumbled. The water closed over him, taking the light, the voice, and the air he needed to breathe.

  “Set Your angels around him. Wi
thin him. Lord, I beg You—”

  The head between her fingers trembled and a faint choking sound broke into her prayer.

  Quintus reacted immediately and grabbed the bowl holding the healing drink and a sponge. “Continue your prayers, but from his feet.”

  Nessa let go of him and scurried to the other end of the table. His feet were soft on the top and rougher on the bottom when she gripped them. Still much too cold, but Quintus hadn’t told her to cover him with blankets or furs yet.

  Quintus soaked the sponge with one hand and with the thumb of the other, pressed the man’s mouth open. She tightened her hold on the man’s feet and began to pray for Quintus as well. Unlike brutalizing a man, what he was about to do required true skill. Squeeze too slow and the liquid would trickle in the airways. Too fast and by the time the throat swallowed there would be too much to consume and choke him.

  “Lord, please. Steady them both,” she whispered.

  The peak of the man’s throat moved without a cough or gag. The rate of release was perfect.

  “Well done, slave. Well done.” Quintus refilled the sponge to try again. “Now stay with us.”

  Chapter 10 – The Ludis

  The air smelled thickly of pungent herbs. Jonathan blinked, and the wooden beams above him lost their blur. Thick fur covered him, thick enough to be a bearskin. A slight flame somewhere to his left revealed only shapes in the deep shadows surrounding him. Where was he?

  Turning his head toward the light extended the ache in his head down to his neck. A woman slept on a table beside him, fully dressed in a simple sleeved tunic and sash with both hands tucked beneath her head. By her clothing she was a servant, but whose?