Chasing the Lion

by Nancy Kimball

  “I’m fine.”

  Quintus glanced at Jonathan. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She stood as if to prove it.

  “If you need anything before I get back, call for one of the guards.” Quintus gave Jonathan the same warning look Brennus had given him the first day at the Florus villa. This time he probably deserved it. He fully expected Nessa to flee the room as soon as Quintus left.

  She watched him leave, and then turned her gaze on Jonathan. She smiled, again, the same warmth in it as before. His surprise tripled when she stood and brought the stool to the side of his bed and perched on it like she planned to be there a while. Her eyes were brown—a rich, warm brown like the fur covering him.

  “I’m sorry about your foot.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s already forgotten.”

  The pink that returned to her cheeks said otherwise, but he was content to let it go. As a servant of the medicus, how she wasn’t accustomed to nakedness seemed as out of place as… as… well, as her. Anyone who used the public baths was. Of course it was one thing to walk through the baths from pool to pool, another to be stripped naked on a slave block, and something else entirely to assault a woman’s sense of modesty.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. “It bothers me to keep referring to you as ‘slave.’”

  “It’s what I am.”

  “It’s the position you hold but it’s not who you are.”

  A particularly loud crack of wood on wood drew her attention to the window opening. The sunlight fell on her dark brown hair and streaks of deep honey appeared in the strands. A tendril above her ear had escaped the simple knot at the base of her neck and shimmered like a new copper coin. How would it feel between his fingers? Soft like Cyra’s?

  Cyra. What had they told her? Was she well? She’d never truly been his, yet she’d been taken from him just the same.

  He emerged from his dark thoughts to find Nessa watching him intently. She chuckled. “Don’t worry. Wood on wood is good. It means the sparring is evenly paired. It’s when the recruits are paired with the gladiators this room fills up.”

  “I thought everyone in this place is a gladiator.”

  The corners of her mouth and eyebrow rose together. “Even me?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Her face fell flat and she sighed. Too slow to be frustration. It was that sadness again. Something he understood.

  “Only recruits who complete the training and pass the final test receive the mark and become gladiators. Until then they eat, sleep, and train together, alongside the gladiators but never with them. The recruits aren’t considered worthy to cross swords with the gladiators until they prove themselves and receive the mark. That is how it is done in this ludis. I don’t know if it is that way in all of them. Are you thirsty yet?”

  Her moods changed as fast as the leader of a chariot race. “I’m fine.”

  She rose anyway and went to pour him a cup of what looked like plain wine. She carried the cup to the table beside him and resumed her seat on the stool. “In case you change your mind.”

  “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

  “I do know that, but I think I’m in good company, considering you still don’t want to tell me your name.”

  “My name is Jonathan.” Jonathan Tarquinius. He hadn’t spoken his full name in four years, but he would never forget it either.

  “A strong Jewish name. A great warrior and prince.”

  “Who fell in battle along with his father and brothers,” Jonathan finished. “I know the story.” He looked away as memories of Deborah and his mother came, reminding him of another time and life he would never know again.

  “It’s not a story, it’s a history. Were you named for him?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a name someone had once, I have now, and someday someone else will have it.”

  “Names are important, even more than great wealth. If you know the history of your name, how is it you do not know that?”

  “I know the Proverbs of Solomon, Nessa. Parchments full of an old man’s musings.” His agitated tone should tell her to drop it. She was poking into a part of his past he didn’t wish to revisit.

  “How can you say that? Solomon was the wisest of kings. He not only gave us the Proverbs, but built the temple as well. Surely you know of the temple in Jerusalem.”

  Her dismayed, no, disappointed look, snapped the last of his self-control. “Yes, I was taught of Solomon’s temple. The Babylonians destroyed it.”

  “We rebuilt it,” Nessa answered, with a proud gleam in her eye.

  “No, Herod the great finished it. Not that it matters,” he snapped. “There’s nothing left of it now. Titus and his legions destroyed it. You do mean that temple, yes? The temple that lies broken and burned in the wastelands of Judea? Its silver and gold plundered and used to build his father’s great arena in Rome? Whose priests and worshipers were crucified to line the road for miles? The rest made slaves and scattered across the empire? Do you mean—that—temple?”

  He’d spent his breath in his anger and his harsh panting hurt his side. He’d hurt her too, because her eyes grew wet and red. She wiped at them with a sniff, pouring rain on the fire of his misdirected rage.

  “Nessa, I’m sorry.”

  “Please excuse me.” She hurried from the room, tangling in the sheet door in her haste.

  He closed his eyes and breathed deep, a new fear rising through the haze of pain. Had slavery finally destroyed who he truly was, or revealed it?

  Chapter 12 – Histories

  Nessa didn’t return. Hours passed until Jonathan could no longer endure the guilt of having released his pent anger on her. He would seek her out and apologize. Perhaps learn more about this place while doing so. The simple task of pulling the tunic over his head sent waves of pain everywhere, but he deserved it after the way he’d behaved. Standing again required tremendous effort, but the fur remained on the bed this time. He’d made it halfway to the sheet door when the cloth swept open.

  Quintus strode in and pulled to an abrupt stop when their gazes met. “Get back in bed right now.” He glanced around the room. “Where is Nessa?”

  “I don’t know. She left a while ago and hasn’t returned.”

  “Get back in bed before you bleed again.”

  He could argue, but truthfully, he was already winded and wouldn’t make it much further anyway. Returning to a sitting position on the thin cushion-covered table had him panting and wishing for unconsciousness. His back itched, his head ached and—

  A string of curses preceded the arrival of someone else. A man stomped in after ripping aside the sheet door. He wore a wide leather belt, loincloth, and sandals—no tunic. Jonathan couldn’t see his face because the man held his nose with both hands. Blood streamed through his fingers and down his neck.

  Quintus frowned as the man threw himself on a stool. “Again?”

  “Don’t start,” the man growled through the hand covering his face.

  “You and Festus need to settle your differences.”

  “We will. In the arena.” Hostility dripped from the man’s voice and vehemence shone in his eyes. He reminded Jonathan of Manius. For that alone, he already didn’t care for the newcomer.

  “Hold still. I’m going to set your nose.” Quintus put his thumbs on the sides of the man’s nose and pushed the cartilage back into place with a painful snap. The man didn’t even flinch. “How did he provoke you today?”

  “Tried to steal my bread again. Thinks he’s above the rest of us because he chose to be here.” He grabbed the towel out of Quintus’ approaching hand and held it to his nose. “He still imagines himself a legionnaire. Determined to conquer in the barracks as he thinks he did on the frontier. He’s not even a first pole. I will avenge my homeland when I take his head one day.”

  “Yes, yes I know. When all the Romans are dead and you have avenged your homeland, only then will you rest. Hold the
cloth there until it stops bleeding.” Quintus took his time washing his hands in a large bowl of water.

  The man must have felt Jonathan’s stare. He turned to glare and pulled the blood-soaked cloth from his face. “Why don’t you have a statue carved of me?”

  “Leave him be, Seppios, he means you no disrespect,” Quintus said.

  Jonathan wasn’t about to give the man bleeding like a sacrificed pig the satisfaction of looking away. He held his gaze without blinking.

  Seppios rose to the open challenge.

  Quintus moved between them in an instant, his substantial presence breaking their line of sight. “Enough. Return to training.”

  Seppios shifted to the side to resume his glaring. When he started toward Jonathan, Quintus pushed him back.

  “Now. Or next time I’ll leave your nose crooked.”

  A long moment passed before Seppios moved toward the door, his gaze still fixed on Jonathan. Even when the sheet door fell back between them and the man was gone, Jonathan could feel that gaze locked with his own.

  “Don’t let him vex you.” Quintus shook his bald head and scratched his ear. “He hates all Romans. Even those who mean him no harm.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a Celt. A conquered people, though you would never know it by Seppios. That entire land could accept Roman rule and their lives would change very little and even then for the better. They would pay taxes to Caesar instead of their king and in return be given roads, trade, protection, and peace. Instead, they fight for something they can’t hear, see, or touch. Most to the death, though I’ll never understand why.”

  Jonathan understood. “The man he spoke of, what did he mean when he said he chose to be here?”

  “Festus is a contract gladiator. A retired legionnaire. He’s still a second pole, because he insists on fighting like a soldier and not a gladiator.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  Quintus scoffed. “As much as Chian wine and that pig swill sold for a copper at the baths. Although you’ve probably never had Chian wine from the Greek isles but yes, a vast difference.”

  Jonathan almost asked him to explain. But killing was killing, and Jonathan had seen enough of it in the arena alongside his father when he’d had to attend. For some unknown reason it was Quintus’ assumption he’d never tasted Chian wine that bothered him. He’d enjoyed many fine wines daily at his father’s table. “I’ve had Chian wine. I’ve also had Caecubum wine.”

  Quintus’ massive brows rose. “You’re too young to have had Caecubum wine. Caesar Nero destroyed the vineyard that produced it when he built his canal to Ostia. And if a master ever caught a slave sipping their Chian wine he’d have him killed.”

  Jonathan didn’t argue. His past was something best forgotten anyway.

  The sheet door moved, but instead of Nessa another stranger entered. A well-dressed stranger. The older man’s eyes perused Jonathan without ever reaching his face. “How is his recovery?”

  “He will live. The rest is up to you and Clovis.”

  The resignation in Quintus’ tone made Jonathan uneasy. The visitor finally looked Jonathan in the face. The man’s stare was more menacing than Seppios and Manius combined.

  “I am Caius Pullus, the greatest lanista south of the seven hills. You have the good fortune to be under the care of my physician and not in an unmarked grave. You begin training with the new batch of recruits in eight days, so enjoy the last rest you’ll ever have. We train every day in my ludis.”

  The doctor stiffened. “He shouldn’t—”

  “Nonsense.” The lanista raised his hand. “You and your little Jewess have done a fine job with him. The fresh air and exercise will do him good. You’ll see.”

  The man left as swiftly as he’d entered, without a backward glance.

  Quintus stared at the doorway long after the curtain dropped. Then he moved to his shelves and began preparing something Jonathan would probably have to drink. The banging and pounding as he did so competed with the sounds of the training through the wall behind him.

  The curtain door swept open and there she was, avoiding his gaze with her red-rimmed eyes. “Are you having trouble finding something?”

  Quintus’ anger seemed to dissipate the moment he saw her. Perhaps she had that effect on everyone. “No. Have you been crying? Is it your foot?”

  “I’m fine. What can I do?”

  “Ready or not in eight days the slave—”

  “Jonathan,” Nessa said, still not looking his direction.

  If Quintus minded his servant interrupting him, it didn’t show. “Caius calls for Jonathan to begin training in eight days.”

  “That’s too soon.”

  “I know.” Quintus sighed.

  She finally looked at him. The pity in her eyes chaffed, though he preferred it to anger.

  “To further complicate matters, I must depart for Tarracina. A messenger brings word my sister is ill. The thieving sorcerers they call physicians there have done all they can.”

  “But that’s halfway to Rome. Who will tend Jonathan?”

  “You. I need you to remain here. The only way I’m going to calm Caius with being away for more than a day is to leave you here and have Alexander on standby.”

  “You hate Alexander.”

  “I know, but if Seppios and Tao tangle and do any real damage to each other, send for him at once. I need to speak with Caius. He vexed me so much earlier I didn’t have a chance. You’ll be fine.”

  She forced a tight smile.

  Quintus patted her on the shoulder as one would a daughter. “You’ll be fine.”

  Now they were alone, Jonathan could say what he needed to. “I’m sorry for earlier.”

  “You were already forgiven.” She took his cup from the table beside him to refill it, still without looking at him. She brought him the cup and finally met his gaze. “Seventy times seven.” Her smile returned. “But don’t try for more needlessly.”

  Deborah would have liked her.

  Nessa tucked her hands into her lap, and her expression turned serious. “How does someone know so much about a God he doesn’t believe in?”

  No sense reopening that wound any worse. He’d rather know about her. “How do you know so much about God?”

  “My father was a priest in the temple you spoke of earlier.”

  His throat tightened.

  “My mother never could convince him Messiah had come in the time of their grandfathers. But she never gave up. Or left his side. Even when he fell in the battle for the temple.”

  You’re a callous fool.

  “She never spoke of the things she saw there when Jerusalem was taken. Or what happened afterward. I know she survived where many did not, and what remained of our people Titus spread throughout the empire in his return to Rome. She would speak often of my father though and all he had taught her. She learned of Messiah in Jerusalem, from the daughter of a woman Jesus saved.”

  “I thought Jesus came to save everyone.” You’re doing it again.

  Her mouth tightened just before she spoke. “I find your sarcasm refreshing. Indifference would be worse.”

  He wasn’t being insolent to agitate her. Rather, he feared the day the stories would fail her in her moment of greatest need and destroy everything she’d believed in. As it had for him.

  She leaned toward him and her face relaxed again. “If you know so much you know that’s not what I meant. The woman who taught my mother about Jesus was the daughter of a woman caught in the act of adultery. Under the law the penalty for such an act is death by stoning.”

  “Not Rome’s law.”

  A hiss died in her mouth as her lips tightened like a bowstring.

  Jonathan almost laughed. That made three, but he had a long way to go before he’d need to worry. Four hundred and ninety times was a lot of forgiveness.

  “Not the laws of Rome, the laws of Moses, but that’s not the point, Jonathan.”

  She put enough emphasis
on his name that he knew he needed to interrupt less. Otherwise she might leave again.

  “Men had caught her in adultery and gathered to stone her. Jesus spoke on her behalf, telling the men gathered that if any of them were without sin they could throw the first stone. No one did. Someone can’t experience God’s intervention like that and not want to share it.”

  “That’s a nice story. It was not among the many my mother or the woman who helped raise me knew, but they’re all just stories. Like soldiers’ tales of battle. Begun in a scrap of truth once, but with every retelling becoming less what is true and more what we want to be true.” He downed the wine in his cup. It certainly wasn’t Chian, but it quenched well enough.

  “How can you say that?” Her fallen look pricked his conscience.

  He hardened himself against it, determined she learn the truth from him now and not in a crisis, as he had. “I just know.”

  “You’re wrong.” She let her words hang there, as if daring him to refute her.

  He admired her refusal to yield, however mistaken her beliefs. After all, he’d believed it once. “Then we agree to disagree.”

  “We nothing. I agree you’re wrong. I can assure you it was no story that kept you from dying when you were brought here barely breathing.” She stood up and crossed her arms.

  Doing so accented her breasts, and he had to concentrate to stare at her face and not her chest. “You and Quintus saved me.”

  “God saved you. Even Quintus says you shouldn’t have survived.”

  No, he shouldn’t have. To tell her they should have let him die would only rile her more, and he was too tired to try to explain why. Tired from sitting up. Tired from trying to reason with this headstrong woman. Most of all tired of being bent to the will of others. No amount of brute force would ever be strong enough to break him again.

  Perhaps she sensed it, for her demeanor softened. She took the empty cup he had been holding like a weapon and set it on the table. “Lord Caius is always firm to purpose. If you’re to begin training in eight days, you need to lay back and rest. Less talking.”