Chasing the Lion

by Nancy Kimball

  The crack of a whip stilled his would-be attackers. “Enough,” Clovis’ voice boomed. “If you have time to brawl like infants you must be finished eating. Back to training.”

  Angry protests and groans rumbled until the whip snapped again. One by one the men filed out, with glares in Jonathan’s direction. All except Tao, who stood calmly from his bench and drained his stew like wine before leaving. Jonathan shook the last chunks of food from his tunic and moved to join the others.

  Clovis stepped in his path and jammed the butt of his whip hard into Jonathan’s chest. “My men never kick an opponent in the groin. Am I understood?”

  “He attacked me unprovoked. I—”

  “I know he attacked you. I watched. You should have been on your feet long before he reached you. Even so, you defend an inferior position by forcing an equal disadvantage for your opponent. If you’d made that kick sweep from the inside and pulled a standing leg from under him, you would have brought him down to you. This is what you will learn in training. But first you must learn to stop being so reckless.”

  Clovis stepped aside for him to pass. Jonathan refused to rub at the tender spot the whip left on his chest and returned to his exercises with renewed purpose. There was nothing reckless about his plan. Nothing at all.

  Completing the day’s work required his remaining strength, and several times only the sheer will to prevail kept him moving. Eventually enough blood filled the cloth wrap it began to run down his knee. Clovis ordered a slave to bring him fresh linen and the trainer changed it in the middle of the training ground. The cut didn’t look any worse than yesterday, but it didn’t look better either. He wanted some news of Nessa and Quintus, but the way Clovis’ brow arched when he asked after her yesterday had given him an uneasy feeling. He wouldn’t do it again.

  Some of the deepest cuts on his back must have reopened too under the strain of training. Sweat ran into them and burned the way Valentina’s kiss had. There was no relief from that and Clovis repeated over and over between cracks of his whip that gladiators embrace pain.

  Every so often, Clovis left the recruits and walked among the paired gladiators on the other side of some sacred line running through the middle of the training yard. He would break them into new pairs and send some to work on hitting wooden poles with their wooden training swords. Finally, Jonathan understood the one sound he’d never been able to figure out while recovering.

  Seppios’ glare as he hacked away at one of the poles left no question the man imagined Jonathan’s head instead of the scarred wooden pole sunk deep into the ground.

  When the day’s training ended, Jonathan followed Clovis to a new cell. This one had no bed, no table, and a copper pot rather than clay. Once inside, Clovis ordered him to strip. He would get his garments and sandals back in the morning. Too tired to fight, Jonathan handed them over. Clovis locked him in and Jonathan settled gingerly on the stone floor. It was too dirty to lay on his back and too cold to lay on his front. He curled onto his side in the corner farthest from the door.

  Firstly, he still controlled his fate more than they knew. They might have taken the table with its legs that could be sharpened into stakes, and the bed with its suffocating mattress. They might have taken his loincloth and belt, which when laced through the iron bars of the grate in the door would work splendidly. What Clovis didn’t take was the long length of linen wrapped around his leg that would work even better.

  But something besides fatigue kept Jonathan from strangling himself.

  Hitting Seppios had felt good. Really good. He’d never willfully inflicted pain on another living thing in his life. Except for biting Valentina and punching the bully in his childhood. He’d thought about it often enough with Manius and more recently Caius Pullus, but imagining and experiencing were two very different things. He stretched out enough to pillow his head with his arm. If it had felt that good to hit Seppios over a spilled bowl of food, how much better would it feel to punish Manius for a stolen life? Valentina for sending him here? He envisioned their faces as they knelt before him, begging for their lives.

  A vision of Nessa came. Humble and forgiving, of both his temper and the wound he’d caused her with the broken pitcher. The contrast jarred him, like breathing hot smoke instead of clean air. He remembered that too.

  He’d been ten years old when fire engulfed the city. Pulled tight between his mother and Deborah like a blanket strung on a line to dry, they’d run hand in hand through the smoky darkness of the streets. Charred plaster and burning pieces of beam and cinders rained from above. Men, women, and children shouted and ran every direction. Dogs barked and yelped as buildings began to groan and collapse around them, silencing the screams until they returned worse than before. Those cries tore Jonathan apart while the hot smoke burned his eyes and throat. Harder days would follow, after the flames died.

  He’d slept on the bare ground then too, much like now. He’d been strong for his mother, who would touch his hair and tell him not to fear. Deborah said God had a plan for them, to give them hope and a future. Jonathan didn’t want hope and a future. He wanted bread and a bed, but had kept that to himself. Deborah had survived similar devastation during Titus’ siege of Jerusalem, and her practical knowledge did more to get them through that time than their prayers.

  Perhaps Deborah had known Nessa’s mother. Had they shared a dipper of water, a beating, or worse, on the march from Jerusalem? Did Deborah still live? What of the women he’d sent to her over the years? Was his father still alive? Had he been searching for him and if not, what did he think happened? He’d known him only four years and had been parted from him for about that same span of time. He still missed him as he still missed his mother.

  He reached for his chest, but remembered her carving was gone as soon as he touched his sweat-damp skin. She existed only in his memory now. The God she’d loved and served had ignored their prayers. God had plenty of chances to deliver her and him like the people in Deborah’s stories. His favorite back then had been the prophet in the king’s lion pit. God had sent an angel that shut the mouths of the lions and kept his faithful prophet from harm.

  Jonathan felt a smile form on his lips—his first since waking up in this awful place.

  He hadn’t needed God to deliver him from any lion.

  He’d killed it himself.

  Clovis worked them hard sunrise to sunset. The other men still avoided Jonathan, but no one kicked his food anymore. He still ate on the floor in the corner like that first day, but in peace. He still slept on the floor of his bare cell but after three days he no longer woke with aches and pains. Clovis had pulled the metal thorns from his back and his scalp yesterday, cursing Quintus to Hades and back for not returning in time to take them out before the skin grew over them any worse. That had hurt, but not as much as the saltwater rinse afterward.

  Caius watched them train twice a day from his balcony. The way he grinned at Jonathan whenever their gazes met said the man thought he’d won. When the right moment manifested, Jonathan would show him he had not.

  This morning Clovis demonstrated a new exercise with the beam. Instead of carrying it on their shoulders and practicing footwork, the beam would rest on the ground and they would jump it side to side while holding their arms straight up. That was going to tax his wounded leg and his still tender ribs.

  The hinges of the main gate groaned and he glanced up. Likely another visitor to join Caius on the balcony. But Quintus entered instead, carrying a large leather bag from his shoulder. Jonathan’s breathing sped and he started toward the gate. Nessa entered, walking well and appearing unharmed, but her usual smile was gone. Her shoulders slumped beneath her tunic that was covered in a thick layer of dust. How far had Quintus made her walk?

  Clovis’ whip cracked. He looked from Nessa to Jonathan and shook his head.

  Jonathan fell in sequence with the others. It would be enough for now that he’d seen her.

  Alone in his cell that night, he tried to think
up ways to see her, talk with her. Tell her about killing the lion. The easiest way would be an injury. But wouldn’t she and Quintus want to see him anyway, to check his back and his leg? Why had they not already? Waiting would draw less attention—if he could stand it.

  Sweat glistened on his arms in the morning sun. He could already feel it gathering between his shoulders and across his chest. Even so, the beam was getting lighter to lift and easier to carry. Caius took his place on the balcony but today he had guests. A man with silver hair wearing a fine white toga stood with a young woman.

  Clovis snapped his whip and Jonathan looked away to avoid finding himself at the end of that whip when it snapped again. He threw himself into his maneuvers as did the others, but listened hard through the cracks of the sparring from the gladiator side.

  “Behold the finest gladiators in the empire, Magistrate. You’ve made a wise investment.”

  “Vineyards and ships are an investment. Sponsoring games is an unfortunate tax of office.”

  Jonathan stole a glance to the trio. His gaze locked with that of the young woman. Had she been watching him?

  “I would like a demonstration before I sign away 25,000 denarii.”

  “Then you shall have it, Magistrate.” Caius leaned over the balcony. “Clovis, assemble the men.”

  Clovis crossed to the gladiator’s side of the yard. “Formation.”

  The gladiators broke from their sparring pairs and formed a single line of men, their weapons and shields held at a proud attention that would rival a Roman legion.

  “Tao, step forward,” Caius called from above. “The champion of the House of Pullus, Magistrate.”

  Tao took a single step forward and nodded in respect. Something Jonathan would never do.

  “Seppios, step forward,” Caius ordered.

  Seppios stepped forward but did not nod. Was it because Caius Pullus was Roman, or did Seppios simply hate the man as much as he did?

  “Wait.” The young woman raised a pointed finger between them. “I want to see him.”

  Caius blanched as he turned toward her father. “Apologies, Magistrate, but those are new recruits. They have yet to be trained with weapons.”

  He had a weapon. One their whips and chains would be powerless against.

  The magistrate stiffened and raised his chin. “Even the newest army recruit knows how to hold a sword, Caius. I see no danger in it, unless, of course, you doubt the quality of your recruits.”

  An uneasy tension sparked the air. Caius turned toward him, his gaze narrowing. “Jonathan. Step forward.”

  Jonathan kept his expression empty while a slave brought him a wooden sword and shield. Seppios and the other gladiators’ incredulous stares sang with contempt as he crossed the dividing line.

  Clovis cocked his head to the side, and Seppios fell back in line. The cords on his neck threatened to tear his skin open. Tao didn’t seem bothered, but he never did. The opponent didn’t matter to him.

  Jonathan couldn’t agree more. He stopped a short distance away and waited for Tao to assume a fighting stance.

  Tao faced him and dropped into a low crouch, with sword and shield raised.

  Jonathan flung his wooden sword into the sand and a collective gasp echoed through the training ground. He turned to smile at Caius, who gripped the balcony edge as if it were his throat.

  “Pick it up,” Caius ordered.

  There was enough space between Caius and his guests. Jonathan would have to be fast. Arrows would be flying for his chest from the guards on the wall as soon as they realized what he was about to do. He grabbed the round wooden shield by the edges, twisted, and flung it for Caius’ head.

  The girl screamed, her father cowered behind raised arms, and Caius ducked as the shield slapped the balcony edge and fell to the ground. Clovis’ whip whistled through the air but Jonathan was ready for that too. He threw his arm up and intercepted the lash, letting the leather coil his wrist as he grabbed hold and jerked it toward him. The wooden handle was torn from Clovis’ grip and bounced a puff of sand into the air when it hit the ground between them.

  Clovis drew his sword and advanced toward him, his expression clear he intended to kill.

  “Put him in his cell,” Caius yelled from above them.

  Jonathan couldn’t look away. Clovis turned a darker shade of red as he stopped and looked up toward the balcony.

  “Put him in his cell,” Caius ordered again.

  Four guards surrounded Jonathan. That he’d expected. Clovis sheathed his sword so hard his belt strained against his hip. They put shackles on his wrists and hauled him back to his cell, but he didn’t resist. Whatever they did to him now, it had been worth it.

  “You’re supposed to be training him to fight, not humiliate me in front of the magistrate of Capua.” Caius picked up his goblet of wine but instead of drinking it, he hurled it at the wall. The crash sent wine splattering floor to ceiling. “Train him!”

  Clovis would take no responsibility for this. He would have killed the man the moment he’d refused to give the gladiator oath. “He has no regard for his life, which is different than not fearing death. He isn’t trainable.”

  “Beat him until he is. Beat him until he yields!”

  “As his last master did?”

  Caius raked his fingers through his thin hair and paced the chamber. “Promises of freedom then? Isn’t that what they all think they’re fighting to win?”

  “He’s not going to fight unless it’s against you. He only trained to await the opportunity to strike at you as he did today.”

  “So he likes revenge. That’s something.”

  “And Quintus’ slave girl, but that’s useless. Quintus would never accept coin to offer her as a reward. From what I know of Jews, even if he did, I doubt she would go to his bed willingly.”

  “They are known for their purity.” Caius continued to rub his chin for a long moment. “Did she and Quintus return yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I would think the medicus chamber. Quintus’ family member passed to the afterlife and it’s left him a bit unsettled.”

  “Take Quintus to look over the new batch of slaves rumored to have come in from Germania. Within the hour.”

  “When I first told you of them you said—”

  “The next person that refuses my command will have his tongue cut from his head. Even you.”

  “Yes, my lord.” He would seek Quintus and take him on this useless task. Caius had never been one to make empty threats, and Clovis wanted to keep his tongue in his mouth where it belonged. It always came down to pain in the end. He’d learned. Every slave learned. So why couldn’t Jonathan? Unless Jonathan was in so much pain already, nothing he or Caius could do would make it any worse. That would explain everything. Everything except why.

  Maybe Clovis had put his sword in the wrong creature that day after all.

  Caius watched Clovis and Quintus depart. He had some time to soothe his nerves before his task. From his balcony, he saw that Tao was in fine form, as usual. He sparred with Seppios, another fine first pole, with a temper as lethal as his sword. The rest of his gladiators knew how to make a reasonable show for the crowd, like Amadi.

  Those slaves were the lifeblood of his financial empire, and Tao, his champion, was its beating heart. But champions never lasted. The emperor or governors freed them at whim. Caius still had to be recompensed for them the same as if the sponsor of the games had ordered them slain, but future earnings were lost either way. If no champion of equal standing and favor with the crowd stood ready to replace him, a lanista could be shut out of the games until there was.

  This Jonathan had the face of Adonis. He’d slain Brutus with a pugil stick. That kind of fearlessness couldn’t be trained, only honed. That was the problem. Clovis was right. Threatening to put him on a cross or throw him to a pack of wild dogs—without a stick—wasn’t going to force him to yield. They were locked in a batt
le of wills and Caius had to gain the upper hand.

  This… might.

  Caius began his trek down the steps toward the barracks. Should it be required, he made certain his dagger rested in easy reach. He pushed aside the curtain and entered the medicus chamber.

  She stood exactly where he expected. “Lord Caius. I’m sorry you’ve missed Quintus. He left with Clovis not long ago.”

  “I didn’t come to see Quintus, Nessa. I came to see you.”

  Chapter 16 – Sacramentum Gladitorium

  They came for Jonathan well after midday meal. Two guards remained outside while Clovis entered and threw a tunic and sandals at his feet. “Get dressed. Now.”

  Jonathan didn’t move from the stone floor where his elbows rested on his knees. He didn’t take orders anymore. “If you plan to beat me, I’ll save you the trouble of stripping me when we’re outside. If you’re going to kill me, I’ll leave this life how I came in.”

  Clovis kicked him on his back and drew his sword in the same instant. The steel at his throat kept him still while the hobnails on Clovis’ sandal bit into his chest as the man’s full weight bore down on his ribcage.

  “Not—everything—is—about—you,” Clovis growled between clenched teeth. “You made a game of your defiance without understanding who you were facing.”

  Jonathan lifted his head as far as he dared against the sword at his throat. “I know exactly who I’m facing. Caius is a man ruled by greed as were all my enemies before him. They stop at nothing to get what they want.”

  A muscle ticked in Clovis’ jaw. “You’ve known that all along, and yet you persisted.” He removed the sword from Jonathan’s neck. “It’s true Caius underestimated you, but you underestimated him in turn. We both did.”