Quintus took a blanket and wrapped it around Jonathan in place of a cloak. He added more coal to the brazier and stoked the fire in it, filling the room with more warmth and the strong sent of char. It reminded Jonathan of the fire, the smoke, and the screams of the dying in his memories. He pushed those thoughts away, because dwelling on them only led to the faces of the men he’d killed. Three days. He was going to have to find a way to protect her. Now.
Quintus took the stool usually occupied by Nessa and pulled a parchment scroll from the folds of his tunic.
“What’s that?”
“More reason for Nessa to cry.” Quintus unrolled the parchment. “I’ll read it to you.”
Jonathan would rather read it himself, but no one here knew that he could read. Although it had been so long since he’d had anything to read, he might struggle. Especially if the writings were Latin.
“To all… lanistii…yes, that’s right. Lanistii located throughout the empire.”
Quintus made a fine medicus. An orator he would never be.
“Certain emissarii from the… Ludis Maximus will be traveling throughout the territories on orders from Lord and God Titus Flavius Caesar Domitianus Augustus Germanicus,” Quintus huffed. “Domitian insists on his full formal title now, even in public.”
“Yes but what are Caesar’s orders?” He should just take the scroll.
Quintus frowned and returned his gaze to the parchment. “Seeking troupes of gladiators for the upcoming Ludi Romani. Only primus palus will be considered, and the doctores of the Ludis Maximus will have discretion over rankings, contracts, and compensation. Those interested may leave word with the local aedele.”
Why was that supposed to make Nessa cry? “Caesar seeks gladiators. Why is that of note?”
“The last time gladiators were summoned from throughout the empire it was by Domitian’s brother Titus, to inaugurate their father’s Flavian Amphitheater.”
“I remember. A hundred straight days of games.”
“The only reason Domitian would summon so many gladiators to Rome is because the games will be extended, or they will be sine missione, and not enough will remain alive for the Ludi Plebeii in November.”
Sine Missione. Fights to the death. Jonathan had already survived two of those matches. But if his tired mind had understood the letter, and they came here, he had a chance to go to Rome. A chance to return home.
Quintus let the scroll reroll on its own and set it on the table. He strummed his fingers on the wood surface over and over. “It is rumored, only rumored, that Hulderic comes out of retirement for these games at the request of the emperor, and even now travels from his homeland in Brittania.”
“Who is Hulderic?”
Quintus’ bald head reared back, his eyebrows shoving the folds of skin above them straight up. “They have taught you nothing. Here, lie back down.” He eased the cushions from behind Jonathan and lowered him to the mattress. “Hulderic is called the Final Shadow. By the time he earned the rudius from Domitian, he had over a hundred victories and thirty kills. Domitian had to free him because no one could defeat him. Several times he defied the emperor’s granting the missio and killed his fallen opponent anyway.”
Jonathan settled beneath the wool blanket Quintus pulled back up to his chin, hoping warmth would return soon—along with Nessa. “The emperor granted the missio and this Hulderic ignored it?”
“Correct.”
“Why was he not killed for disobeying Caesar?”
“The first time he should have been. A colleague who attended those games told me when the barbarian saw the arena guards coming to dispatch him to the underworld, he picked up the sword of the fallen man and together with his own killed them one by one, throwing their severed heads into the crowd. Like any good Roman mob, they were so entertained they screamed mitte as more guards were sent to finish him. Domitian dared not defy the crowd, so he gave reprieve. Hulderic fought another three years before he’d become so hard to control and cost so many gladiators, even in training, Domitian gave him the rudius.”
“He earned his freedom?”
“Yes, but without honor. He is the worst kind of gladiator, Jonathan. One that toys with his opponents long after they have fallen, ignoring the rules of proper contest. No clean thrust to the neck or blade to the jugular. Instead he carves them like roasted pheasant. It’s utterly un-Roman.”
Footsteps approached, but they were too heavy to belong to Nessa. The curtain swept back and Seppios entered, holding his arm. A thick splinter as long as a hand protruded from the flesh above his elbow and blood covered his forearm.
Quintus rose from the stool and retrieved cloth, wine, and salt from his supplies. “What happened?”
Seppios assumed his familiar place on a far stool. “It’s not important. Just get it out.”
Quintus’ mouth tightened into a hard line that matched Seppios’. He gripped the wooden shard and gave it a firm twist before yanking it out. Seppios howled, and the corner of Quintus’ fleshy lips turned skyward.
Nessa would be horrified. And Quintus wouldn’t have done it in her presence.
Seppios’ hand jerked to cover the wound. “I wasn’t ready.”
“It’s not important. Just hold still while I finish.” Quintus pressed a generous amount of salt into the wound, making Seppios stiffen straight as a beam.
That had been long overdue and he was proud of Quintus for it.
Every man eventually had his limit. Caius had pushed Jonathan past his. Throwing him back into the arena in only three days was condemning him, and Nessa, to death.
So be it. Jonathan wouldn’t live to see Rome again, but neither would Caius.
Clovis would rather send Jonathan to fight a pair of murmillos. Changing tactics after their master had won the war was a mistake. “You’ve given him no women for the past three and a half years. Why now?”
“Someone made me an offer too generous to refuse.” Caius held a heavy leather pouch of coins high and then dropped it beside him on the couch. “That and accepting brought more enjoyment than the pleasure I’ve found in depriving him.”
“If you value at all what I know of these men, particularly this one, do not do this.”
“You’re not usually so against them entertaining in the bedchamber, unless of course it’s too close to a fight for your comfort.”
“It is not for my comfort.” Restraining his anger felt like carrying ten beams at once. “It is for the good of the men, and in turn, this ludis. And Jonathan has never been treated like the others. You overtax him in combat, allow him to be paired with superior fighters without proper time to return to form between contests, and then deny him the spoils his blood and sweat should earn him.”
Caius’ hand froze midair over his bag of coin. “Take care when giving your opinion so freely.” His calculating gaze narrowed. “You forget yourself.”
It was Caius who had forgotten. Forgotten his own father and mother had been brutally killed in this very room by a gladiator when their slaves revolted. But he was still the master. “Forgive me, my lord.”
“I’ve told Quintus he is allowed to rest until Friday. The woman visits at midday sun. Make sure he’s bathed and attired properly. I will send the tunic I want him in when I summon him. You are to remind him he performs all that I require, in and out of the arena. The penalty for defiance has not changed. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.” Caius was the one that needed to understand. Giving Jonathan an hour of pleasure, assuming he wouldn’t consider it offensive and he probably would, would deepen his bitterness the next time the slave girls passed his cell by. But like everything, the master would have to learn the hard way.
Chapter 21 – Hour
Jonathan could ignore the pain in his side only because of the beautiful woman kneeling beside the stool he rested on. If only she would smile at him, like he needed her to. One last time. One last time to give him the strength to do what he must. “Are you still angry w
ith me?”
Nessa finished applying her special paste to his wound before answering. “No.” Her brown eyes flitted up to his gaze for the first time in days. “Frustrated, but not angry.”
She smiled then, and sweet relief flooded his weary body like the final snap of Clovis’ whip at the end of the day. “It’s early for this, is it not?”
“Clovis told me to change it early, and to give you plenty of opium for pain.” Her smile fell away. “If you have to fight today…”
The fear in her gaze was unbearable as it went to the wound in his side. Even she knew he wouldn’t be able to overcome that in the arena. But he didn’t need to. Not this time.
He’d never tried before because the risk of failing was too great. But today, when he took the sand, and Caius rose to begin the contest, Jonathan would launch his sword straight for Caius’ chest with the strength of the condemned and hope his sword did the work of a spear.
It was her only chance.
She sighed and gathered a wide roll of linen. He was glad Quintus wasn’t here and Nessa would have to bind him. She unrolled the cloth, sweeping her hand along the smooth surface. If she found any uneven weave that would chafe him, she would cut it away or choose another piece. She only did that for him.
“Can you hold your arms out for me?”
He raised them and bit his lip against the stab of pain in his torso. The opium must not have taken effect yet. Nessa moved close enough the end of her braid brushed his thigh as she wrapped his waist. He breathed deep to keep from closing his arms around her. The intoxicating scent of herbs and the oil she bathed in made his mind mush. He bit his lip harder, concentrating on a crack in the wall.
Could he try? He’d fought wounded before. Never this wounded but, could he? He’d lost before, but given such a good fight the crowd had thundered with praise when he finally raised two fingers. As long as the crowd and Caius’ patron were pleased, that had been enough to satisfy Caius. If it were a slave with a sword and not another gladiator, he might be able to. He would know in the first few volleys. But by then it would be too late. He wouldn’t be able to stop the fight and return to his plan. Assuming he wasn’t bleeding to death first. If the wound in his side reopened during the fight, he would be.
“Almost done.” Her breath hit his chest like the warmth of the sun when stepping from the shadows on a winter morning. He tilted his head straight back and closed his eyes. Caius had been clear when he’d scarred his face. He fails, she dies. Death was failure. Killing him wouldn’t be the end, unless Quintus and Clovis would protect her if Caius did in fact have someone or more than someone who would avenge his death on her, as he’d vowed.
The sharp discomfort when she tied off the wrapping brought him back. He looked into her deep brown eyes, still ignorant of all of this. Should he tell her? Tell Quintus? Why did every strand of the web in his mind lead her into more danger and not less?
She rose from the floor and put her hand on his shoulder. “After you’ve won, I’ll be here when you wake. And Quintus will have returned by then. Caius won’t let you fight until he’s here. I’m sure of it.” She forced a smile, but the growing sheen in her eyes gave her away.
She wasn’t herself today. No teasing him he needed a bath or making shadow animals in the lamplight with her hands that looked nothing like they were supposed to, especially the owls. No sparring with him about her God. How he’d come to cherish those times alone with her. He took her hand from his shoulder and held it. So soft. So strong. “I need to tell you something.”
Her brow creased as she tensed.
“If I don’t come back—”
“Stop.” Her fingers flew to his lips.
He pulled her hand away gently. “I need you to listen.”
“I can’t.” She pulled free of his grasp and backed away. “Not to that.”
Clovis entered, his gaze darting between them. “Can’t what?”
“Nothing.” Nessa turned her gaze to him. “I’ll be here. When you come back.” Then she hurried from the room, with Clovis watching her.
Clovis could suspect nothing. Jonathan needed every advantage. To put from his mind all the ways this could fail so that it would not. “Am I fighting here or somewhere else?”
“You’re not fighting.”
Not fighting? “An exhibition?”
“Similar. You’ll be given instructions when they’re needed. For now come to the baths.”
He followed Clovis down the familiar corridors. Relief he might yet see the sunset tonight with Nessa unharmed made his feet unsteady. He could stand for a few hours in his bronze chains and be gawked at and discussed as if he were a statue.
At the baths six slaves waited. They used enough olive oil on him to light every lamp in the ludis, working around the linen wraps on his torso and the two on his arm. A slave trimmed his hair while another shaved him. A third rubbed him down with crushed hyssop leaves wrapped in steaming cloth. Clovis stood watch, looking grim as ever, holding a new tunic that looked more suited to Caius than Jonathan. Maybe they meant to show him at the governor’s villa again.
When time came to pull his tunic over his head, the pain in his side wasn’t as strong as before. Hopefully the opium would last long enough for him to swing a sword against a slave for a few minutes if he needed to. “Are we traveling on foot or by cart?”
“Your visitor comes here.”
No one came to see him here unless he was performing in the arena. “To the ludis?”
“To the villa. Come.”
Clovis led him through another corridor that became familiar when they reached the stairs. Jonathan paused at the same polished metal on the wall. If not for the scar on his cheek to prove it, he wouldn’t have thought the bloodied and bruised face he’d once seen in it was the same one returning his stare.
“Come,” Clovis ordered.
Jonathan continued up, summoning his restraint in case Caius was present. Mercifully, the balcony was empty. No guards, not even Caius’ slave girls were there. The faint stain on the wood floor that could only be the blood of the innocent man he’d slain tugged at him as he passed over it.
They followed another corridor to a single door standing closed at the end. Clovis put his hand on the latch and turned to Jonathan. “Caius reminds you that you obey him without hesitation and in exchange he honors your agreement. Do you understand?”
Understanding crashed through him like thunder. Panic coursed through his veins and every dark emotion he possessed battled en masse in his head. Could he do this? He’d been summoned. Not to fight but to, to—with a stranger. Who was in that room?
“I will wait in Caius’ chamber and come for you in one hour.” Clovis pushed open the door. The chamber was lit with lamps in the corners of the room. A low, wide couch bigger than any he’d ever seen sat in the center of the room, behind a cloaked figure standing with their back to him.
“One hour.” Clovis gestured for him to go inside.
Jonathan could feel the sweat warming him and his heartbeat quicken.
Clovis leaned close. “Pretend she’s her,” he whispered, and propelled him inside.
He took two steps toward the cloaked figure and heard the door close behind him.
The woman turned and pushed back the hood of her cloak. It couldn’t be. But then she smiled with all the lust his scarred back remembered.
Chapter 22 – Old Friend
Valentina’s gaze crawled from Jonathan’s face to his feet before returning to his eyes. “I was angry to learn you were still alive. Until I saw how much gladiator life agrees with you.”
Her satisfied sigh ripped through him like a sword.
“If it was your allegiance to my husband that kept you from me, you’re no longer bound to it. You can give in now to the desire that lies within you.” She rolled her shoulders, and the edges of her cloak fell behind them to reveal a blue silk tunic clinging to her body like a second skin.
“My desire?” His voice trembled
as he raised his hand to her neck and gripped as tight as he dared. With his other hand he traced her cheekbone, the smooth perfection of her skin. “My desire is to kill you slowly.”
Her eyes widened in a fear he relished. He allowed his grip on her neck to tighten, his thumb pressing hard into the jugular vein he’d been trained to sever. “To watch the life drain from your eyes while I crush your throat.”
Jonathan. Nessa’s voice whispered his name like a prayer, breaking through the storm of wrath. For her, he found the strength to let go. The fear passed from Valentina’s eyes as she swallowed and rubbed her neck. For one beautiful moment, he had controlled her. But it couldn’t last. Though no longer hers, he was still a slave. She knew that as well as he did.
She put her hand flat to his chest in a gesture of unearned familiarity. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
He grabbed her bared arms and shoved her back as roughly as he dared, curling his hands into fists to keep from striking her. “Keep your prostitute hands off me.”
Valentina straightened where she’d caught herself on the edge of the bed. “Careful who you call a prostitute, slave. I paid for the pleasure of your company. Not the other way around.”
“It makes no difference which direction the coin passes, though you’d like to believe it does.”
She raised her hand and swung, but he was faster. He snatched her wrist and held on before her slap reached his face. Her other arm shot up, and he grabbed that one and held both even tighter. Her struggle to free herself pulled Jonathan with her toward the wall. The instant he released her she would attempt hitting him again, so he held on. He flattened her against the wall with the full press of his body, less she begin to kick at him too. If she managed to strike him, he knew he would hit her back—and not be able to stop.
The need to exact retribution cried out with every breath. Trapped between the crush of his body and the wall, the heat of her breath covered his face as her chest heaved against his own. She finally stilled, and her gaze went to his mouth.
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