Chasing the Lion

by Nancy Kimball

  Anything.

  “It was a good day’s work, Clovis.” Caius removed his toga to sprawl back across his couch. “I was sorry to see the magistrate spare Festus and the two recruits who lost. I would have welcomed being recompensed for them.”

  Clovis bit his tongue to keep from cursing his master.

  Caius snapped his fingers and one of his concubines brought him wine. “Maybe I’ve been wrong.”

  “About Jonathan?”

  “No, my compensation for a slain gladiator. A higher price is more profitable, but I fear it makes the sponsor of the games more determined to let them live, even when the crowd wants death. I think the crowd had riot in their hearts today when the magistrate allowed Festus to live. Mercy,” he scoffed. “The blight that remains in our Roman virtue.”

  Caius set the wine down to pull the slave woman across his lap. “But the magistrate was impressed with our Jonathan. He asked I bring him for his feast next week.” He shook his head as he tangled his fingers in the slave girl’s hair. “It took that stiff-necked thorn in my heel to get us invited back to the private parties.”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but his injuries are such I doubt he’ll have returned to form for demonstration by then.”

  “It’s not for demonstration, it’s for contest. The magistrate wants to stage a match for the guests of his feast. The winds of fate are finally changing.”

  Clovis wanted to yank the woman off the man’s lap and pull the wine from his hand. Their men deserved better than this. “They need time to recover from their wounds and return to form. Fighting them injured all but ensures they will lose.”

  “Tao and one or two of the others didn’t sustain injury.”

  “But Jonathan did, and—”

  “Jonathan is my concern and you will continue to do as I command.” The muscles in Caius’ jaw tightened, making the cords of his neck stand erect like tent poles. “Am I understood?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “All but three of the men were victors today?”

  “Yes, my lord. Festus and two of the new gladiators. A strong day for the House of Pullus.”

  “Yes, but a long night for the girls.” Caius stroked the leg of the woman on his lap. “The more time that passes between their win and their reward, the less effective the conditioning. Take two of the kitchen slaves from the villa for the new gladiators. They won’t know any different. My slaves will see to the others. Take an amphora of mulsum wine for yourself. You’ve earned it.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I shall share it with the men if you permit.”

  “It’s yours, I care not.” Caius flicked the air with his hand and shoved the woman away. “But none to Jonathan. He receives no wine and no women.”

  Clovis withheld the sigh. This was not the way to draw out the warrior he’d glimpsed the day Jonathan crawled through the sand to retrieve his wooden sword and stand again and again, insisting Tao teach him. He’d observed it again today in the final moments of Jonathan’s battle against the murmillo. Few men possessed such a will, forged of iron, that would battle on long after the body and mind were spent.

  But Clovis was a slave as much as Jonathan. “As you wish, my lord.”

  If a woman came into his cell, what exactly was he going to do? Kiss her? Would kissing a stranger be anything like kissing Cyra had been? Jonathan hadn’t thought of her in a long time. Not since that day Caius scarred his face and Nessa became his life. Did all women kiss the same? A shudder passed through him as he thought of Valentina.

  Memories of her kiss brought a moment of clarity, followed by a deep sense of shame. He doubted women here chose to pleasure the gladiators of their own free will. They were slaves, like him, performing as they must. He would never willingly benefit from that, for it made him no better than Caius.

  Besides, it wasn’t lack of opportunity that kept him pure since his mother’s death. Brennus often boasted of the local brothel and before that, Jonathan’s father gifted him with a beautiful servant girl. A servant Jonathan summarily ignored.

  He would never risk fathering a child who would grow up as he had, in hardship, without a proper father or name, assuming the child was allowed to live at all. That conviction was something he never spoke of. Nor would he ever speak of it, especially here in the barracks of the ludis.

  Hinges groaned on the cell door adjacent to his. A shadow blocked the torchlight through his grate. Then it was gone. Another door opened and the breath he’d been holding left him in a rush. The sounds of passion soon returned, this time through the opposite wall.

  He turned toward the quieter wall, wincing as his wounded arm bore the weight of his body. A new pain worked its way through him. For the woman who’d made the shadow. Jonathan had crossed swords with every man here. They were not gentle or patient, and he had no reason to believe they would be now. Even if they were, was her suffering any less? Less than Nessa’s had been? If Caius forced himself on her again, what could he do?

  Kill him.

  Better yet, kill him long before then. After all, protecting her was the only reason he still breathed. If Caius ever strayed too far from his guards, Jonathan wouldn’t even need a weapon. They’d made him into one.

  Chapter 20 – Misused

  Without his armor, Jonathan’s body bore no resemblance to the gladiator that ignited the crowd in any contest he entered. His skin resembled a peasant’s tunic, ripped and repaired so many times the past four years it would sadden the hardest patrician noble. Nessa had prayed over and helped tend every wound, but right now, she wanted to inflict some of her own on the man responsible. Her eyes burned as she held Jonathan’s hand, praying for those grass green eyes to open. “He can’t continue like this.”

  Quintus rinsed his hands and didn’t respond. He had to be tired, redoing the horsehair sutures he’d done yesterday after the battle. How they’d broken between then and today when he checked them she couldn’t understand. Nor why Quintus continued to ignore her while he extinguished two of the four lamps hanging from their stand beside Jonathan’s table. Quintus remained silent while he returned his instruments to their places in his leather bundle.

  Someone was going to listen to her. “You must speak to Caius again. Make him understand.”

  “I’ve tried. Clovis has tried.” He put the last bronze wound clamp away and then shelved the tools before coming to her side and putting his hand on her shoulder. “We’re doing what we can for him.”

  Were they? Was it right to keep healing him so Caius could continue to exploit him this way? She could switch the opium with hemlock without Quintus knowing but—God forgive her. How could she think such a thing? Especially knowing Jonathan still rejected his need for Jesus.

  “Keep him warm. Give him as much undiluted wine as he’ll drink when he wakes and try to keep him still. His ribs kept that wound from being deep, but if it reopens…”

  “I know.” He’d lose even more blood, and there would be even less good flesh to try to close it again. At least this contest had been in their own arena and Luca had Jonathan brought to them right away. Jonathan’s opponent had been brought to the table beside him. She’d had to ignore her tangled emotions when that gladiator’s medicus had been unable to save him.

  “Are you all right?” Quintus asked.

  She looked up and forced a smile. “I will be when he is.”

  “I’m going to the temples for ox blood. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “You know he hates that.”

  “He loses it faster than his body grows it. Keep him warm. Fire the brazier hotter if you need to, and I’ll return soon.”

  “Hurry, Quintus, please.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “I will.”

  He wouldn’t return until he’d found an ox about to be sacrificed. So much blood. It still made her sick to her stomach that so many people believed a gladiator’s blood to be the cure for any infirmity. She’d fled the room the occasions Caius would summon Tao and Jonathan to t
his very chamber so the men who’d paid for it could collect it themselves.

  There was life and healing in only one blood, and Jesus the Messiah had already shed it. That was the blood Jonathan needed. The truth he needed to accept. Before his own spilled again and he died, lost and unredeemed.

  She brought the back of his hand to her cheek and the tightness in her chest turned to tears. She beseeched God to change Caius’ heart. To ease Jonathan’s pain. To continue to preserve his life. She prayed for the families and loved ones left behind by Amadi, killed in the December games before last, and for Festus, who she and Quintus had been unable to save last month, and the three others who had been killed in between. She asked God to remove the hate in her heart for Caius. She’d been able to forgive him defiling her body, but slowly destroying Jonathan’s for his insatiable greed she could not forgive.

  “Help me, Lord. Help me turn the hate in my heart to the love You showed us on the cross. Help Jonathan to see and know that love. Please.”

  The hand she held twitched in a weak squeeze. “Don’t…” His green eyes watched her, half open as he wet his lips and swallowed. “Don’t cry.”

  Jonathan hated the anguish in her voice as she’d prayed. He hated the tears on her face, even as that smile of hers he’d come to need formed when she met his gaze.

  She wiped at her cheek with the knuckles of her free hand. “Tell the bird not to fly.” The smile faded and she stroked his shoulder through the thick wool blanket covering him. “Are you warm enough?”

  Not really, but he nodded anyway. He remembered very little of his last contest, except for the crippling fear of being certain he was going to lose. The arm Nessa held looked all right. His fingers and toes moved. Beneath the blanket tucked tight around him his left leg burned when he flexed that foot. “What happened?”

  “A better gladiator,” a deep voice answered. “You almost took that hoplomachus’ spear straight through your middle.”

  Tao approached, the sheet door fluttering behind him. Sand covered his chest and forearms, clinging to the sweat. He stopped near Jonathan’s feet, crossed his arms, and shook his head. “I’ve taught you better ways to disarm an opponent.”

  He hadn’t been trying to disarm him. Had he? No. No, he’d left the hoplomachus an opening to draw the gladiator in and open a wound on his exposed side. And it had worked, except the man feinted withdrawal at the last second but still managed to drive that spear at him like he was skewering a trout. Jonathan had rolled his shoulder back and dropped low, felt the spear tip in his side. He’d missed the man’s knee, but his exposed torso had loomed inches from his sword and he’d…

  “He left you no choice,” Tao said, his voice emotionless as always.

  Jonathan met his mentor’s gaze and saw no disdain there for delivering a mortal wound that hadn’t been commanded. Only understanding.

  Nessa shifted on the stool beside him. But she hadn’t let go of his hand. “Are you injured?”

  “No. I came to see how the lion killer does and urge him to heal quickly. He and Seppios are the only sparring partners I must be awake to fight.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Though the longer it took him to recover, the more time he spent with her. Perhaps that wasn’t true.

  “You always do.” Tao’s tone echoed respect. “I need you on your feet. New recruits arrive soon. Maybe one will be as mule-headed as you were and offer us some amusement.”

  “Seppios can only hope.” Jonathan took a deeper breath to keep speaking. “How is he?”

  “Furious. It has become known that the fee for time with him in the private chamber is less than half of mine.”

  Jonathan chuckled and pain lit up his tender side. In front of his mentor, he did his best to stifle the wince in his throat. Nessa’s cheeks turned brilliant crimson, so Jonathan chose not to respond to his friend’s humor. That blush was lovely. He was the only gladiator that was never summoned to the private chamber. No reward after a victory ever entered his cell. Even if Caius thought he was punishing him, Jonathan preferred it that way. Though it did stoke his pride to hear now and then rumors of the sums of coin Caius had been offered for him.

  There was only one woman he wanted to spend time alone with. Her grip on his hand had grown uncomfortably tight and her pursed lips so unlike her.

  “Tao, Jonathan needs rest if he is to heal.”

  The edge in her tone must have surprised Tao as much as him. The champion’s brows dipped and he stiffened, but flashed Jonathan a glance before nodding at Nessa and departing without a word.

  Her gruffness had been uncalled for. “Besides you and Quintus, he’s my only friend.”

  “You need to rest. Tao understands that, or he would not have left.” She sniffed, and released his hand to wipe at the edge of her nose, reminding him she’d been in tears when he’d awakened, and still looked it.

  “You need to stop crying. You’ll frighten Quintus.” He’d meant to lighten her mood. Bring the smile back to her face he so needed to see.

  But she looked away instead. “They’re used to seeing me cry.”

  He tried to keep the panic from his voice. “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She rose and turned from him.

  He seized her wrist before she could take a step. Pain bloomed in his side, but nothing like the pain of her jerking free of his grip. She knocked the stool over in her retreat and glared at him from where she’d stopped—out of his reach.

  He should have known better than to try to hold her against her will, no matter how much he wanted an answer.

  Nessa huffed and marched back to him. She lifted his blanket and moved his arm, checking for blood on the linen covering his side. “Don’t do that again.”

  “You have my word. But I want to know why they’re used to seeing you cry.”

  She pulled her lower lip in and held it there the way she did when she was contemplating something.

  “I can’t rest until I know. If you want me to rest, tell me why.” Making it about him was low, but it would work. She would answer rather than let him remain troubled.

  Eventually her gaze met his, a mix of anger and sadness. “Because every time could be the last time. Perhaps like Amadi, Festus, and the others, one day you will not wake again. Not stand again. Not breathe again.” She hugged herself tighter and drew a deep breath. “I live with that fear, wondering what I could have said or done differently for you to open your eyes to the truth that you are still in need of Jesus, no matter how much you pretend otherwise.”

  It always came back to God for her. “Nessa, I—”

  “No. I won’t hear it all again, Jonathan. How God abandoned you. How I believe in a dream that one day I must wake from.” Her words came faster, shorter, and so did new tears. “You asked why I cry. I told you. That is enough.”

  Quintus entered through the sheet door, took one look at her face and crossed arms, and quickened his pace. “Why are you crying?”

  She dropped her hands and growled like a lion cub. “Can the reason for my tears ever be mine alone?” She stormed through the sheet door and her normally light footsteps stomped down the corridor until he couldn’t hear her anymore.

  Quintus removed a small amphora from the pouch he carried and uncorked it. “What did you say to her?” He emptied the thick, red liquid into a clay cup and stirred in several pinches of herbs and powders.

  Jonathan stomach knotted at the sight of the foul drink. “Why assume I’m to blame?”

  “Because you always are.” Quintus set the cup on the wooden table beside them. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten those first days when you last sent her crying from this room. She’s stronger than any of you on your best day. She only weeps over you or when someone dies. Now I’m going to sit you up and for the love of the gods, don’t use your middle to help. Let me roll you up.”

  It still hurt. Quintus put cushions at his back and handed him the cup. Jonathan sniffed it and blanched.

  “You know you have
to drink it while it’s still warm.”

  “I’d sooner be cold and lightheaded.”

  “Drink it.”

  It tasted worse than Frona’s goose liver stew and went down about the same. He couldn’t stop swallowing because he wouldn’t be able to start again.

  “You’re always lightheaded,” Quintus said. “I don’t know if it’s because you’ve had your skull bashed so many times, or you were born that way.”

  Jonathan swallowed the last of the foul drink, but before he could offer retort, the familiar gagging sensation made him want to retch. It happened every single time.

  “Don’t you dare.” Quintus tilted his head back to open up his airway and held it there.

  Jonathan sucked his tongue to try to clear away the aftertaste. After a long moment his roiling insides calmed. He drew a deep, steadying breath, and Quintus released his head.

  “I think you insulted me just now.”

  Quintus grinned. “Proof I’m right. I clearly insulted you. How you missed it is beyond me. You’re going to need to be clearheaded and well rested. Caius orders you ready to entertain in three days.”

  Jonathan gagged then. “Three days?”

  “I can give you a strong dose of opium to dull the pain. That’s the best we can do. I’ve told him if you reopen that wound, not even I will be able to save you.”

  Caius was trying his best to get him killed. He always sent Jonathan into a fight before they’d allowed him to fully recover, but three days was suicide. He could be shield to shield with a new recruit and still lose. A single bump, blow, or swing of his own sword would open his side. He’d bleed to death before the crowd had finished their first wineskin.

  “Perhaps it’s an exhibition. Your mere presence at a feast commands quite a bit of coin now it’s rumored. For someone who loses as often as you do, you sure impress the crowd while doing it.”

  “Tao is the champion of this house, Quintus, not me. And he is allowed to dine and drink with the others, while I’m left shackled and not allowed to move from wherever I’ve been put on display.” Those nights were the slave block all over again, except for being allowed to remain clothed.