Torren subtly inserted himself between them. “Patience. When Jonathan is healed and I’m ready, then we’ll rank.” He clapped Styx on the back, still brooding on the bench across from Rooster. “Keep at him, Styx.”
Styx slammed his elbow back onto the table. “Again, Roo.”
Rooster dropped to his bench and they clasped hands. The rest of them men resumed their encouragement and Jonathan and Torren were forgotten. They all looked—happy.
That should encourage Jonathan, yet it made him feel even more an outsider.
Torren nudged him toward the doorway. “Let’s get you to the medicus chamber before that opium wears off.”
The next hallway held far more doors than made sense. “Are these storerooms?” It seemed odd they would be so far removed from the kitchen.
“Bedchambers. Yours won’t be ready for a few days yet, but Otho will want to keep an eye on you in the medicus chamber so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Jonathan stopped and looked again at the doors. No locks. “You don’t have cells?”
Torren turned toward him, the hint of a frown on his face. “Cells are for animals and criminals. My men are neither.”
“You don’t fear escape?”
“Should I?”
An honest question deserved an honest answer. “No.”
Torren’s posture relaxed and his grin returned. “Good. Come along then.”
A few more paces down the long hall, and Jonathan remembered his question from earlier. “What does it mean to rank?”
“Ranking the men is proper contest to determine level of skill and who is champion. Surely you know this.”
“I did not.”
Torren swore and his mouth flattened. “Caius Pullus has the gall to call himself a lanista.”
At the end of the hall, Torren opened the last door. The room inside was already crowded. The medicus, judging by the jar in his hand, did the same head to foot appraisal the others had. “You weren’t jesting.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Torren said. “But they tell me he heals fast.”
The medicus gestured to the only open bed. “Put him over there.”
Jonathan reached into his belt and freed the small scroll tucked inside. “This is instruction on the preparation of a paste to speed healing and reduce scarring.”
The medicus reached to take it and Torren’s eyes met Jonathan’s. “Nessa?”
The sound of her name pried at the lid of his longing, but he didn’t show it. “Yes.”
“Few servants read and write. Most that do are scribes. Did Quintus write it down?”
“No, I did.”
Torren’s brow lifted. “You write?”
The surprise in Torren’s tone annoyed him. Jonathan had been well educated in his father’s house and knew a great many things besides how to swing a sword. “Yes, in both Greek and Latin.”
“With which hand?”
Why did that matter? “My left.”
Torren’s eyes widened and he stepped closer. “Show me how you hold your spoon.”
An odd request. As strange as everything and everyone in this place so far.
“Go on, show me,” Torren commanded.
So Jonathan did, feeling rather foolish to be holding in imaginary spoon in the air.
Torren picked up a vial from the shelf closest to him and tossed it to him.
Jonathan caught it, but the quick movement sent a hiss of pain through his gritted teeth.
Torren swore again and then uttered a short laugh. “Caius Pullus had no idea what he possessed.”
Jonathan handed the corked vial back to Torren. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re left-handed.”
The man on the stool, who must be Anzo, spoke first. “Did you even know?”
“Know what?”
Anzo scoffed and turned to Torren. “Will you train him to the proper side?”
Torren rubbed his chin and frowned. “I don’t know. He did defeat Hulderic right-handed.”
“And Jelani.” The injured gladiator lying on the other bed spat the words with such contempt, he must be Dax. A thick metal splint surrounded his arm from wrist to shoulder.
Torren moved between them as he’d done with Rooster. “Jelani will not be forgotten, but you will treat Jonathan as he would have. Jonathan is a brother now, a part of this familia gladitoria.”
A glance around the lanista revealed a glare on Dax’s face.
“He’s right,” Anzo said, and Dax turned the glare on him.
“Enough.” Torren crossed his arms and seemed to grow a hand-breadth taller. “You know our code of honor. Wolf and Julius were here when I last enforced it. You know me to be a man of my word. For the love of the gods, do not test me. I will enforce it.”
Both men eyed each other without blinking a long moment. Dax finally relaxed the glare but didn’t drop his gaze. “Understood.”
“Good.” Torren’s easy grin returned, and he clapped Dax on the shoulder. “Get them both healthy, Otho. If you require anything for that paste, Rufus will pick it up when he goes for supplies tomorrow.”
Torren left, and Otho had Jonathan strip to his cloth. He managed it without too much grimacing. A sour-smelling yellow salve burned like a branding iron in every one of his wounds. He’d rather it be Nessa’s paste, and her touch that delivered it. Anzo seemed friendly enough. Dax couldn’t be faulted for the animosity that lingered in his expression. If Jonathan were in the same room with the gladiator who’d slain Seppios, he’d react the same way.
Their meal was a stew as good as any he’d had in his father’s house. Otho asked a great many questions about Nessa’s paste. Half of which he didn’t know the answer to. Anzo left first, and then Otho, after extinguishing the lamps.
Jonathan lay awake on the bed, fighting to remain awake. He’d rather sleep in the sand outside than fall asleep beside a man who probably wanted to slit his throat. In the dark, Nessa’s face came to him easily. Her brown eyes and dark hair, and her smile that always drove the shadows from his mood.
Lord, protect her and Quintus. She told me I’m immortal until Your work for me is finished. Prove her right. Help me know how to help Dax so that we may grieve Jelani together. Help me to live worthy of his sacrifice—and Yours.
Chapter 30 – Champion
Jonathan began the new day as he had every other for the past six months—on his knees. “Lead me in Your truth, Lord. Keep Quintus and Nessa safe. Remind her of my great love for her and surround her with warrior angels that will protect her from all harm. Give me strength and wisdom to honor you with the gift of this day, and shine your truth to those around me.”
He rose from the cool stone floor of his room and donned his belt and sandals. The leather wrist guard with the mark of his house never left his arm, even when he bathed. Outside, Ramses and Julius already worked the poles in the training ground. They nodded in greeting as their wooden swords banged in time with each other against the scarred wood rising from the ground like limbless trees. Warmer air than yesterday hinted at spring. Perhaps the change in weather meant the heavens knew this was no ordinary day. One opponent remained in the rankings. Jonathan had bested all the others. Some easy, some not, but all while fighting right-handed. Today Jonathan would face Rooster for first position—that of champion.
He chose his preferred wooden sword and shield the others knew to leave for him and joined them. “You’re looking well this morning, Ramses.”
“I’ve decided I’d still rather have spent the three nights with my wife and children instead of better preparing to fight you. That is the only reason I lost.”
Julius chuckled and gave the pole a particularly solid blow. “If only you possessed as much strategy as you do excuses.”
The Egyptian grinned at them and spun his wooden sword in the air. “It doesn’t matter. Roo will win. He always wins. You might as well concede defeat now before he puts bruises on top of all those scars.”
“Will you fig
ht him left or right-handed?” Julius asked.
“I don’t know.”
It was the truth, but Ramses must have thought it cunning by the way he laughed. “I think Jonathan plans to keep Roo guessing to the last possible moment and ensure we don’t ruin his advantage.”
Trying to correct him would be futile. When Ramses set his mind about something, nothing swayed him. This caused a tense moment on rest day a few weeks ago when Ramses accused Marius of cheating him at knucklebones. A servant summoned Torren, while Jonathan and Rooster fought to prevent a shouting match from becoming a physical altercation. Torren stormed the common room, his hair askew, wearing only a tunic—inside out—and threatened to cancel rest day till the December games if he was called away from his visitor ever again to settle a childish dispute.
So instead of arguing with Ramses, Jonathan resumed his pole work. With each successive blow of the wooden sword to the battered pole, the corded muscles of his arms warmed and stretched.
“Left hand,” Torren yelled as he approached. “You won’t improve if you don’t practice.”
Jonathan swapped his sword and shield. Fighting left-handed provided him a distinct advantage. For his opponent, everything would be backwards of what it should be. The difficulty was if Jonathan’s concentration slipped at all in the pitch of sparring, everything felt backwards for him also.
Torren picked up a sword and shield. After six weeks recovering from Hulderic’s blades, Jonathan had begun training to the shock that Torren was his own trainer—and a considerable opponent.
Torren assumed the beginning stance and beckoned Jonathan closer with his shield. “Left side. With me. And do not hold back today. Rooster will not, nor will I.”
He’d suspected Torren of holding back when sparring with him after watching him fight Roo to an impasse one day last November. If Jonathan weren’t also holding back when sparring with Torren, he would have known sooner. Something in his mind wouldn’t allow him to strike his best blows into the body of a man he respected as deeply as he did his Dominus.
Torren grinned and shifted his weight over his front foot. “Stop holding back. Fight me as if Nessa were the prize.”
He remembered her name. That shock ripped through him like a spear. Jonathan never spoke of her here, except alone in prayer. That Torren remembered her name after all this time made his respect for him swell and his sword arm falter.
Torren charged.
The impact sword to sword and shield to shield thundered through the training ground. Cheers erupted around them as Torren’s wooden blade slammed Jonathan’s elbow. The crushing blow knocked him sideways a full step and he spun to recover.
Torren crouched lower and raised his sword higher. “I told you I’m not holding back today.”
“Level him, Torren!”
“Show him who’s master!”
Jonathan lost his shield several parries deeper into the fight. In frustration he put his sword back in his right hand and attacked again. Sweat breached his brows and stung his eyes but he fought on. Without the shield he could move fast enough to counter every thrust of Torren’s sword, always mindful of that shield and the man’s feet while watching his eyes.
It was like fighting Tao again. Torren swung but reversed and spun at the last moment, slamming the flat of his sword into Jonathan’s right arm. Pain licked down to the bone and he bit his lip to keep from cursing.
“If I break that arm you might finally learn to use your left.”
Jonathan allowed the pain in and feigned injury, letting the sword tip fall and clutching at his upper arm. Torren hesitated, no longer the trainer but the lanista again, and Jonathan landed a stunning jab to his rib cage with his aching but very un-broken arm.
Torren’s hip rolled back in the instinctive recoil that always accompanied that hit. Jonathan swept his foot between the man’s legs and yanked the unsteady foot from under him. Torren landed on his back and Jonathan’s sword pinned his chest before the sand settled.
Groans and cheers from the men swirled around them. Instead of making Torren give the missio, Jonathan offered him his hand.
“You’ve been holding back too.” Torren took hold and pulled himself to his feet. His stare hardened and he brushed sand from his arms. “I’d stop. Roo will not.”
“Roo is not my lanista.”
“True, but anyone who crosses blades with you is an opponent. No more, no less. Lanista, brother, even Caesar.”
Their circle of spectators parted as Rooster approached, sword and shield in hand. “Don’t tire the lion killer before our contest. He’ll cry foul, like Ramses.”
Torren picked up his shield and sword from the sand and tossed them to Rufus. “Don’t be anxious. I left plenty of fight in him for you.”
The circle closed around them and Rooster rolled his head shoulder to shoulder and shook out his legs one at a time.
“Aren’t you going to warm up first? I’ve got an amphora of Falernian wine on this.”
Jonathan didn’t have to look to know Wolf had spoken. Wolf bet on everything.
Rooster scoffed and assumed opening position. “Beating Jonathan is my warm-up.”
Overconfidence was good. It would make it easier to lay the trap for the champion. Doing so was going to subject his own body to plenty of physical punishment, but the six months under Torren had him in peak condition. He could take it. Groans came from a few men when he picked up his fallen sword with his left hand and his shield with the right. Probably those with bets both for and against him. If he didn’t think about it feeling backwards, it wouldn’t.
Torren nodded in approval and held the pugil stick between them. “Places.”
Jonathan crouched behind his shield, sword extended and ready. He dipped his chin and took a deep breath, summoning his focus. Somewhere in the stables a horse whinnied, breaking the hush that had fallen over the training ground. The soft whip of shifting sand said Rooster adjusted his stance. The stick flashed through Jonathan and Rooster’s locked stares.
Jonathan sprang forward with a shield thrust. Rooster’s eyes flashed wide when their shields met in a solid boom and propelled him back a step. Jonathan wasn’t as fast or as strong attacking left-handed, but like most every gladiator in the empire, Rooster was unaccustomed to defending against it.
It wasn’t an advantage Jonathan could hold for long, because a sword didn’t block like a shield. Rooster was putting the pain to him on the left side with blows from his heavy wooden shield. Jonathan dug in and concentrated on defending. Not too much, just enough to keep his feet and keep drawing Rooster into the trap. All around them the other gladiators shouted encouragement.
His left arm was numbing from the numerous blows he’d suffered on that side. Most he could have blocked but did not. Rooster kept them coming, growing less and less careful with each blow as their sparring wore on. When the corner of Rooster’s mouth lifted slightly after a solid blow to Jonathan’s leg, it was time to spring the trap. Rooster’s next swing hit Jonathan’s shield and he let go of the grip, the force of the blow carrying the shield far to the side of them.
Rooster seized the opening and leveled a vicious swing toward Jonathan’s now exposed ribcage, as Jonathan hoped. He ducked beneath the swing, moving his sword to his right hand and flipping it as he did so the tip of the sword lay flat against his elbow. In the blink of an eye, the wooden sword now protected Jonathan’s forearm, and he slammed it full force into the side of Roo’s head as the champion fought the momentum of his failed swing.
Rooster dropped face down into the sand.
Jonathan flipped the sword in his grip again and thrust the blunted tip between Rooster’s shoulder blades. Cheers erupted from the circle of men around them. Jonathan found Torren among them, anxious to see if he’d pleased his lanista.
But Torren was rushing toward them. He dropped to his knees besides Rooster and turned him on his back. “Rooster?”
No response. His eyes were closed and his head limp.
/>
“Fetch Otho!” Torren slapped Rooster lightly on the jaw as the brothers closed around them. “Wake up, Roo.”
Jonathan cast his sword aside and crouched beside them. A hand to Roo’s chest confirmed he was still breathing.
Torren shook Rooster’s shoulder so hard his head rattled in the sand. “Come on, Roo, wake up. Wine and women wait in plenty. Wake up.”
Still nothing.
Jonathan put both hands on Rooster’s arm, bowed his head and closed his eyes. “God, I ask You to awaken Rooster. Clear his mind and open his eyes. Restore him in the name of Jesus Christ.”
“Praying to Jelani’s God for a miracle?”
Jonathan met Torren’s stare. “Jelani’s God is my God, the only God, Torren. He is God Most High, and still performs miracles as in the ancient writings. I know because I’m one of them.”
“The miracle,” Rooster rasped, “is Jonathan beat me.”
Torren’s eyes went wide as Rooster opened his and looked right at Jonathan. “You can let go of me now. I yield.”
“Thank you, God,” Jonathan whispered as he let go of Rooster’s arm and sat back on his heels.
Rooster sat up and shook his head like a wet dog, flinging sand everywhere. He rubbed the side of his head above his ear. “I want to know one thing. Where did you learn that?”
Torren laughed and put a hand on Rooster’s shoulder. “Have him teach it to you. Jonathan is the champion of the House of Gallego now.”
Disappointment fell like a shadow over Rooster’s expression. Even without that, Jonathan wouldn’t have reveled in his victory. He rose and offered his hand to Rooster. The former champion grasped it after a long moment, and Jonathan pulled him to his feet.
Otho emerged from the villa at a dead run, and then skidded to a halt, his brow furrowing when he surveyed Rooster. “They said it was urgent.”
Torren shrugged. “You’re too late. Jonathan entreated his God and healed Rooster.”
An image of Nessa flashed in Jonathan’s mind as her words formed on his lips. “It’s God that heals, though sometimes he uses people to do it.” He ached for her, imagining how proud she would be for him at this moment.
Chasing the Lion Page 25
