Chasing the Lion

by Nancy Kimball

  He watched her, the smile fading from his face. “I’m going to miss you. Your smile and your laugh.”

  The words sobered her like a bucket of water to the face. “Is it wrong that makes me glad? I don’t want you to forget me.”

  “Surely you know I’d never forget you, or I’ve failed far worse than I thought.”

  Nessa shifted to lean against the wall beside him. “I do know. And you never failed me. But whenever we’re alone I always end up talking about me. I want to know about you and your life before you came to us barely breathing.”

  She wanted as many memories of him to carry with her as her heart could store. But his heavy sigh made her regret asking. She slipped a hand to his scarred palm. “Forgive me. You don’t have to tell me.”

  “No, I think it’s time I speak of it. I think I need to.” Jonathan ran his other hand through his hair and sighed again before relaxing to meet her gaze. “I was six the first time I was made to feel ashamed for not having a father, or knowing who he was. I was twelve when I met him for the first time. The same day my mother died.”

  Her heart broke for him, and this was only the beginning—his brother’s betrayal, the shame of the slave block, the cruel seductress and her treachery that sent him to Caius Pullus. His fear when the lion charged him. His anger at finding her violated. The horror of discovering he’d executed an innocent man. Nothing prepared her for what he would say next, through the tears glossing his green eyes.

  “The things I’ve done, and the men I’ve killed…” He swallowed and the water in his eyes fell. “Caius threatened to hurt you again if I refused to fight. If I took my life, if I lost it in the arena, I would forfeit yours. And I couldn’t let that happen, Nessa. I couldn’t.”

  She touched the tears on his face, seeing beyond the shame and anguish there. He had fought for her. Bled for her. Protected her through his suffering. He’d loved her like Christ, without knowing it, and the flames of her love for him became an inferno.

  Careful of his wounds, she embraced him. The cloth of his tunic warmed her cheek and the steady beat of his heart filled her ear for the first time. Countless times she’d felt it beneath her fingers, praying it wouldn’t stop. The beat of his heart was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. Thank you, Lord. Thank you.

  Jonathan cradled her to him, resting his head atop hers. His good arm tightened around her and all the fear and pain he had carried alone for years came forth while she held him.

  Nessa awoke in Jonathan’s arms, his warmth better than any blanket. The lamps still burned, but she had no idea how long she’d been asleep. From the ache in her neck, it must have been hours. She listened, trying to make out Jonathan’s voice above her, so quiet it could scarcely be more than a whisper. She tilted her head so her ear was free of his chest and the steady beat of his heart.

  He paused, tightening his arm around her. She remained still, and after a moment, he continued. This time Nessa could make out the words.

  A tear slid from her eye as she listened.

  He was praying for her.

  Chapter 28 – Respect

  Torren wanted out of Rome. Were it not for the games, he would avoid the city altogether, with its politicians, praetorians, and poor. He wanted Jonathan safe within the ludis walls, and he needed to see Caelina. He missed her, which compounded his guilt as he waited for Jonathan to bid his woman farewell. “I think my newest gladiator is in love with your servant.”

  “He is,” Quintus said. “The marvel is she loves him in return. I’ve known for some time.”

  Torren wanted to give them privacy, even outside the inn where people passed now and then on the narrow street, but the litter bearers and his guards already waited. He’d ordered his guards to lay linen over the cushions of the rented litter before their departure. The cost of the cloth would be small in comparison to replacing the cushions if any of Jonathan’s numerous injuries bled on the way.

  Jonathan removed a medallion or charm from around his neck. He placed it around the woman’s neck before embracing her. Torren turned to Quintus, more to escape the sight of the lovers than anything else. “Would you ever free her?”

  “She’s been like a younger sister to me and knows nearly as much of medicine as I do.”

  “That’s not an answer.” The retort emerged sharper than Torren intended.

  “Who would protect her and care for her if I did? You? Jonathan cannot.”

  A strong offer formed in Torren’s head. One he wanted to voice, but couldn’t. He loathed separating her from his new gladiator. But the quickest way to turn his men against each other was bringing a woman who belonged to only one of them to the ludis. He would never make that mistake again. “I was merely curious.”

  Jonathan approached them, the servant girl trailing in his wake. “Quintus, please send word to Gallego often and let me know you are both well.”

  “I will. Try not to give Gallego’s physician as many sleepless nights as you gave Nessa and me.”

  Jonathan clasped the physician’s shoulder. “I will trust God to watch over you both. For the sake of the legionnaires and the men they face in battle, I hope you often find yourself bored.”

  That remark was aimed at Torren more than the physician, but responding would gain nothing. Jonathan ignored him and climbed into the waiting litter. The tension inside the curtains would be as thick as the cushion they would soon share. Torren couldn’t bring himself to speak to the woman or meet her gaze, knowing it would be red-rimmed, and he the cause. He nodded to Quintus and joined Jonathan.

  “My servant will meet us at the east gate with a cart to bring us to the ludis. I have opium if the jarring becomes too great.”

  Jonathan didn’t acknowledge him. He continued staring out the opening on his side of the curtained tent. Torren would tolerate the mute treatment, for now. Separating them was a necessary wickedness and his gladiator deserved the time to sulk. Meanwhile he would work.

  Torren removed the ledger from his leather bag to review his accounts. After the cost of Jonathan’s acquisition, his care and keep, the bribes that always associated a visit to the city, the bonus to Quintus, and two accounts he’d been unable to collect on again, the stay in Rome had still been profitable. He would reserve enough to call on Caelina several times and transfer the bulk to his shipping and usury interests. A few adjustments to the numerals in the wax coating of the bound wooden slats, and then he exchanged his ledger for his new parchments. A scribed copy of Ovid’s Sorrows, a collection of poems he wrote after being exiled by Caesar Augustus.

  Concentrating while traveling through crowded and noisy streets that reminded him why he hated the city became too great an effort after a few miles. Though the writings were evocative and it was as if the poet had given words to things Torren had only ever thought in secret. He put the parchments away and studied his newest gladiator. If the man reclined any closer to the edge of the litter platform, any stumble by the slaves at the poles would tip him out into the street.

  “How long will you hate me for not bringing her?”

  “I don’t hate you.” Jonathan met Torren’s gaze, his green eyes overflowing with the anger he denied. “It would only disappoint her.”

  Torren guarded his expression. The first days with any new gladiator were precarious. Several in the past made the mistake of thinking him weak because of his relaxed manner. “So you enjoy crossing swords outside the arena as well?”

  Jonathan’s gaze returned to the opening. “It depends who it is.”

  He’d been dismissed, but he wouldn’t push. Though he’d witnessed the long and bloody fight, it was hard to accept that the man resting an arm’s length from him slew Hulderic. Torren would never have allowed any of his men to face the legend, even if he’d possessed one with enough skill to be chosen. Until these games, he’d never allowed his gladiators in contests promised to be fights to the death. Only the tremendous coin offered finally swayed him, and he let the men volunteer. But with
Jelani dead and Daxus already back at the ludis with a busted sword arm that might never mend, he regretted giving in.

  But if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t own Jonathan. Would he have knowingly traded Jelani’s life for the most valuable gladiator in Rome? He wanted to say no. Though the offers he’d turned down for Jonathan recorded in the wax tablet in his bag, the highest a half-million sesterces—kept him honest.

  The pain in Jonathan’s chest worsened with every mile. He shifted repeatedly and thought of Nessa. The feel of her in his arms, the soft, almost purring noise she made in sleep, and the love in her eyes when he placed his mother’s carving around her neck.

  “Jonathan, I can’t take this.”

  “You must. I swear I will come for you one day. Until then keep it close to your heart, as you are to mine.”

  It was Gallego’s fault. Though without him, Jonathan would still belong to Caius and Nessa would still be vulnerable to his threats. Was one volatile madman better or worse than a harsh climate on a disputed frontier? It was too much pain to embrace this time—in his body and his heart. He’d sacrifice his pride. Whatever disparaging comment or mocking look Gallego gave him would be worth the relief. “Could I have that opium now?”

  Gallego reached into his leather bag and leaned far forward with the vial. Jonathan took it, and Gallego’s attention returned to his curtain opening with no comment or smug look of triumph. The sharp taste of the undiluted opium burned Jonathan’s throat and set him coughing. He lay back, hating to display so much weakness.

  He’d been up all night praying over Nessa and with the opium, the steady sway of the litter made his eyelids heavy. More weakness in front of the lanista. Yet the unusual man didn’t seem the kind to hold it against him. Or attack it mercilessly as Caius had. Gallego appeared straightforward and a shrewd man of business, though not unjust, at least as far as he could tell. Other than being years younger and looking nothing alike, Torren Gallego reminded Jonathan of his father.

  Torren loathed having to wake his sleeping gladiator. Assuming he even could, with the heavy dose of straight opium Jonathan had taken. But Jonathan woke on his own when the litter bearers set the litter on its supports at their stop. He climbed out stiffly, and the linen cover showed spots in a few places. He’d bled some on the way, but not as much as Torren feared. Quintus did good work.

  The grass beneath Torren’s sandaled feet felt as good as stretching his legs. His head servant Rufus waited with the wagon and a wineskin. Both were a welcome sight. He paid the litter carriers a little extra for a relatively smooth ride and approached his waiting wagon.

  Jonathan stood at the rear, holding his right arm against his chest, unsure of what to do. After a full detail last night, Torren’s guards were not as attentive as they should be from the backs of their mounts. He would make an allowance for them, but his head servant should have recognized the problem immediately. Climbing into a cart required two good arms.

  “Rufus, we need a step.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Rufus jumped to the ground, took a sturdy crate from beneath the bench seat, and hastened to position it on the ground at the wagon rear.

  Jonathan still waited.

  Torren gestured for him to climb into the cart first. He knew the man’s pride demanded he do this unaided, so he didn’t offer to assist. When they were both settled in the straw, he observed him from the corner of his vision. The tight set of his mouth and the way he clutched his arm to his side still made Torren wish he’d had his medicus Otho brought with the wagon. A full quartarius of straight opium should have worked better than this.

  Rufus replaced the crate while Torren uncorked the wineskin and offered it to Jonathan first. The gladiator’s forehead creased a moment before he took it with his good arm. With Caius Pullus for a master, Jonathan was probably suspicious of anything resembling respect. That would take time to bring to rights, like his injuries, but Torren had time.

  The December games were already contracted, and Jonathan and Daxus wouldn’t be in them. Perhaps by the spring games, one or both might be ready. If Jonathan’s form was even remotely in question, Torren would keep him from those games too. The gladiator must win his next match to secure his fame going forward. Torren wouldn’t allow him back into the arena unless he was healthy and in peak condition. Waiting too long however, he risked all manner of censure from Jonathan’s public and the organizers of the games.

  The editors of the games could be handled with diplomacy and a few well-placed bribes, as long as Caesar didn’t become involved. Torren was ready to be rid of Lord and God Titus Flavius Domitianus Augustus Germanicus.

  From the secret gathering he’d been invited to attend while in Rome, he wasn’t the only one.

  Chapter 29 – What He Had

  From the size of the outer wall, Torren Gallego’s villa was as large as Jonathan’s father’s. Inside the gate however, it looked like a ludis. A vast yard of sunken poles, hanging poles, a raised fighting platform, and a few beams lying strewn about spanned wall to wall. Only the gladiators were missing.

  “Saturday is free day.” Torren regarded him as the cart rolled toward the entry to the barracks. “The other six we train. Hard.”

  The man was a puzzle. He’d shared his wine, from the same skin no less, and ridden in the box of the wagon with him rather than the seat beside the servant or on one of the guard’s horses. He behaved nothing like a master.

  A young man emerged from open doors, running to meet them. Torren’s son?

  “Welcome back, my lord.” A servant. The young man looked a year or two younger than Jelani. Had they been friends?

  Torren nodded to him and handed the crate over the side of the cart to Rufus. Jonathan fought back a groan and made it to the ground without stumbling or embarrassing himself. The house, while massive, was only one level. Where would Torren observe the training from without a balcony? The lanista handed his bag to Rufus and motioned Jonathan forward.

  “Come, I want you to meet the others.”

  Inside the house, furnishings and adornments were sparse compared to Caius’ lavish style. The peristyle could be a second training yard for its size, but it lacked shrubs, flowers, and statues that a normal peristyle would have. A solitary olive tree shaded a servant at its roots, fashioning something from red clay.

  The man noticed them, and Torren waved him down. “No need to rise. I’m showing our new gladiator around the villa and introducing him to his brothers. Jonathan, this is Cambyses, who we call Cam, the most spectacular murmillo the arena has ever seen. Cam, this is Jonathan.”

  Cam’s eyes swept over him while he continued to mold his clay. “I didn’t believe it when Torren told us a thracian from some obscure house in Capua slew Hulderic.” The man’s gaze rolled over him again. “And now I believe it even less. You look like he sharpened his swords on you.”

  Another Seppios. Rather than rise to the insult, Jonathan remained silent. After all, God had delivered him from Hulderic.

  A grin formed on Cam’s face as he laughed. “We’ll teach you what the shield is for when your arms heal. Welcome, brother.”

  Torren knelt to examine the shaped clay in front of Cam’s folded legs. “What are you making this week? Another bowl?”

  “A carrion bird feasting on Anzo’s severed head.”

  The vehemence in the man’s tone was a sudden switch.

  “Where is Anzo?” Torren asked.

  “Medicus chamber with Dax.”

  “You two should settle your differences.”

  “We will. In the arena.”

  Those had been the first words Jonathan ever heard Seppios speak. The resemblance bothered him. He missed the big, Roman-hating Celt, and would mourn his loss in a new way now that his own faith had been restored. Not once had he ever shared the truth of Christ with Seppios, Tao, Clovis, or any of the others. He’d been consumed with denying it himself while struggling to survive. Now it was too late. For Seppios most of all.

  Torren led him
down a hall toward… cheering? Rufus stood beside a closed door with a large amphora of wine. Torren took it from him and nodded toward the door. “How are they?”

  “In high spirits, my lord. Ramses has not yet returned. Cam is working his clay in the peristyle. Anzo visits with Dax.”

  “Good. Let me know when Ramses returns.”

  Rufus opened the door, and Jonathan felt very small. Seven men, who could only be gladiators by their massive builds, filled the room. Two arm-wrestled on benches while the others cheered them on. Each wore a black leather wrist guard on the right arm.

  Torren appeared unaffected that none of the men acknowledged his presence. He approached the table and set the amphora of wine on it. “Keep at it, Styx. One day you may beat him.”

  The one wearing beads of sweat with the cords of his neck bulging must be Styx. His opponent wore a look of intense effort, but not strain. The man grinned and put Styx’s arm hard to the table with a solid thump. “Not today.”

  The men around them laughed, including Torren—all but Styx and Jonathan.

  The victor rose from the bench and surveyed Jonathan as Cam had. “So this is him?”

  “This is him. I’m taking him to see Otho but wanted to introduce him to his brothers.”

  “Welcome to the House of Gallego, Jonathan. I’m Rooster, reigning champion of this house for the past two years, and this weak-armed wretch here is Styx. This is Julius, Wolf, Prito, Marius, and Sanballat.”

  “Did a lion get you?” Styx asked.

  Jonathan followed their gaze to the long thin scabs on his arms. “Not this time.”

  Rooster’s brow arched as he rubbed his hands together. “You must tell us of the other time when you are rested from your journey. And heal quickly. I’m anxious to cross swords with you.”