Chasing the Lion

by Nancy Kimball

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “No one is to know I send for her in Jonathan’s name. I’ll explain when she arrives.”

  “And if she refuses again, my lord?”

  Torren was certain, though that was its own secret wound. “She’ll come.”

  When they mounted up, Torren said it would be a two-hour ride to Ramses’ cottage. He’d remained silent since then, but Jonathan didn’t mind. Though Torren’s horse, with the gaping hollow in the side of the animal’s head where its eye should be, always made Jonathan uneasy.

  The quiet ride through the countryside reminded him of the chariot ride with his father the day they met. The olive and pine trees and occasional flocks of sheep or goats with their shepherds soothed him. Even though the animals would taint the breeze, it felt good to be outside, without a wall or boundary in sight.

  Except that Torren swayed in the saddle too much, as if he’d all but given up holding himself erect.

  Jonathan nudged his horse to close the gap between them. “You’re deep in thought or nearly asleep. Which is it?”

  Torren continued to stare straight ahead. “I contemplate.”

  Sometimes the best way to treat a festered wound was to cut it open. “Caelina?”

  Torren straightened in his saddle without meeting his gaze. “No. What I’m going to do if Ramses is delayed of his own will.” He kicked his horse into a run, leaving Jonathan behind.

  Jonathan squeezed with his knees and picked up his pace as well, but left distance between them. He’d tried. Torren remained at a gallop until they reached a turnoff from the road to a small path. When a small cottage finally came into view, Jonathan’s stomach twisted.

  Ramses stood in the doorway with a rusted gladius in the ready position.

  Torren dismounted, his hand moving to rest on the hilt of his sword. “Let’s discuss this without weapons.”

  The faces of two children and a frightened woman peered out from the only window opening in the small dwelling. The boy’s gaze locked with Jonathan’s, and every remembered pain of his fatherless years swept through him. He slid from the saddle and moved toward Torren.

  As did Ramses. “There’s nothing to talk about. My wife is sick and our only slave has run away.”

  “And you want to share in his fate as a fugitive slave?”

  Ramses edged forward, still leading with his sword. “I will not abandon my family to starve or freeze.”

  Torren’s grip tightened on the handle of his own weapon. He held up his other hand, palm out to halt Ramses’ advance. “If you force me to draw this sword, Jonathan and I will win. You already know that, and that I will sell you at the first opportunity since I can no longer trust you.”

  To stand with Torren meant a son and daughter witnessing their father cut down before their very eyes. Jonathan couldn’t do it. Nor could he allow it. Lord, help me stop this.

  No greater gift.

  Jonathan’s heart sped. Lord?

  No greater gift.

  He would die for either of these men already. That was the agony in the choice before him.

  No greater gift.

  What else did he have, besides his life? And then Jonathan knew. I can’t, Lord. Please. I can’t!

  Torren drew his sword.

  Ramses raised his rusted blade and dropped into opening position. The little girl flew from the hut and clung to his leg.

  “Go inside, child!” Ramses tried to shove her to safety without giving Torren an opening.

  Jonathan threw himself between their blades, an empty hand outstretched to each of them. “Stop!”

  “Move. Now,” Torren ordered, his voice slow and deep.

  Jonathan turned to face Torren, keeping Ramses and his daughter behind him. “How much for his freedom?”

  “More than he has.” Torren’s anger at the added betrayal flared in his dark eyes.

  “More than I have?”

  Torren’s blade faltered and his stare tightened. “Yes.”

  Not enough. Never enough. How many friends would he have to lose? Seppios, Tao, Rooster, and now—wait—“What about Rooster?”

  “Rooster’s dead.”

  “He had no family to receive his saved earnings. Together with mine, is that enough?”

  Torren frowned and Jonathan knew his master’s thoughts at once. “He gave his life defending yours, Torren. If you profit from that, you’re no better than Caesar.”

  “Jonathan, don’t.” Ramses spoke from behind him. Jonathan glanced over his shoulder to beseech him to be silent. Ramses’ daughter, in her ragged dress and tangled curls, remained tight around her father’s leg. The son had joined them, and held a spade like a club. There was so much of himself in that young boy’s eyes.

  The sound of a sword being sheathed snapped his attention back to Torren. The lanista stood tall and grim-faced. “Make no mistake, Jonathan. I will take your twenty thousand sesterces. You will begin again with nothing.”

  “I understand.”

  Torren stared at him a long moment, before turning away. He made swift strides to his horse and swung into the saddle to gaze down at them across the distance like a Roman general. “Ramses, come for your scroll tomorrow and return the horse of mine you have. And I swear by every god in every temple in the empire, if you ever threaten me again, I will speed you to your ancestors.”

  Torren’s hard stare turned to Jonathan. “As for you—if you ever stand against me again—with or without a weapon, not even Nessa will know you when I’m through. Do you understand?”

  He understood. He understood exactly what he’d just done and gave a solemn nod.

  Torren yanked his horse around and kicked the animal into a swift gallop toward the road. Ramses’ wife hobbled out of the hut. With tear-filled eyes she came toward him, arms out. Jonathan stepped away so she could go to her husband but she came to him and clung to him like a barrel on the open sea. Jonathan embraced her frail frame, thoughts of his mother intruding as he prayed for God to heal this woman. He hugged her and whispered in her ear, “May the Lord be with you.”

  Ramses handed his sword to his son and approached, holding his daughter’s hand. “I have no words, brother.”

  “I don’t want words. I want you to protect and care for your family and teach them all I’ve taught you about the one, true God.”

  “I will.”

  Ramses embraced him. The faces of his wife and children beside them became a fresco in Jonathan’s mind. He would draw strength from this image against the regret he knew would come. It already fought its way in, and he needed to get going. He released Ramses and turned away. A light tug on his tunic stopped him.

  Ramses’ little girl held a frayed rag doll up to him that looked suspiciously like a gladiator. “You keep.”

  “No, little one. That’s yours.”

  She pushed it toward him again. “Papa stay now. You keep.”

  He tousled her hair and tucked the little doll securely into his belt. His horse stood quietly while he mounted and took one last look at Ramses and his family before turning away. Away from the family he’d never had as a boy and the hope of his own with Nessa he’d just sold. He gave his horse a sharp jerk of the reins and kicked the animal harder than he should have.

  The sight of Torren in the road ahead threw anger into Jonathan’s storm. The lanista rode at a jog, but Jonathan didn’t trust himself to be within striking distance of his master. Not when everything inside of him screamed that Torren’s greed was no different than that of his half-brother or Caius and made his sword arm tingle. He urged his horse even faster and gave Torren a wide berth as they blew past.

  Mile after mile they ran, passing a flock of sheep whose shepherds probably thought Jonathan was a messenger, as fast as he rode. When his horse began to labor, Jonathan finally slowed their pace. The animal’s sides heaved against Jonathan’s knees and white foam dripped from the glossy, wet neck. Jonathan dropped to the ground and led the horse beside him. Every time her nostril
s flared, heat blasted his arm like a furnace, and several times she nearly stumbled. Remorse found room in his heart among the regret and anger. He led her at a turtle’s pace a good distance, until he glimpsed a stream beyond a bend in the road.

  He brought her to the bank and let her wade in to drink her fill. The sound of the water cascading further upstream soothed him, and he lay back on the grass while the sunshine warmed his face and arms.

  This place reminded him of his vision when he’d almost died. The day Nessa entered his life. She’d become his life. She’d saved it, in every way. And he’d just lost her. Again.

  His spirit begged the release of tears, but he held them in. Not yet. He mounted back up and pressed for the ludis, more mindful of the horse this time.

  Rufus met him near the doors of the villa. “Where’s the master?”

  “Not far behind.” He could hear the tremor in his voice. Not yet. Make it to your room.

  “And Ramses?”

  “Ask Torren.” Jonathan slid from the horse and nearly stumbled when he landed.

  Rufus took the horse’s reins from where they now dangled on the ground. “Are you ill?”

  “I’m fine.” Jonathan ignored a greeting from Styx in the hall, then the questioning look that followed for having done so. Hold it together. Almost there. He opened the door to his chamber and shut it behind him, ready to collapse onto his bed with his grief.

  But Caelina reclined in it, wearing a red tunic that matched her lips and twirling a lock of flaxen hair around her finger. “I’d hoped something passed between us those days we spent together. You’re the only gladiator I would ever allow to send for me.”

  “I did not send for you.” He could hear the husky catch in his own voice and breathed deeper to quell it.

  Her sultry smile disappeared. “Yes you did.”

  “I swear on my sword I did not.” He moved toward his table to pour himself a cup of wine and leave her a clear path to the door. “I need you to leave. Now.”

  She rose from his bed, but moved toward him instead of the door. “What game do you play with me?”

  Games. Coin and greed. Stealing everything from him again and again. He poured the wine, but his muscles trembled from the wealth of emotion he struggled to restrain. So much so, more wine landed on the table than in the cup. “Leave now. Please.”

  “Not until you explain yourself.”

  An anguished cry roared from his throat and he flung the pitcher at the stone wall. The crack of the clay shattering only amplified his helpless rage. Wine ran down the wall, and broken sobs from a rent heart stripped the last of his dignity as he sank to his knees and dropped his head in his hands to weep.

  Lord, I’m but a man. How long? How long must I wait for her?

  Caelina came and knelt beside him. He looked up at her to beg her to leave him, but those weren’t the words that came. “I’ve lost her again.”

  She put her hand to his shoulder, smoothing the thin wool of his tunic. “You don’t have to always be strong.”

  “But I do, don’t you understand that?”

  From her expression, she didn’t.

  How could she? No one understood him—except Nessa. He buried his face in the sanctuary of his hands and spoke from behind them. “Please go.”

  The sound of rustling cloth signaled her movement, but no footsteps followed. Instead he felt a hand on his back and an arm loop around his body at the top edge of his belt. The weight of her head came to rest against the curve of his neck. She held him, and he let her. No more strength remained in him to fight.

  In minutes, the heat of her breath became the heat of his skin where life pulsed in the cord of his throat. She turned and kissed him there, her lips soft and warm. He raised his head toward her. Her lashes swept down an instant before she touched her lips to his. The tide of sensation swept away the last of his reason and its torment of emotions with it. His eyes closed as he cupped her face in his hands and laid siege to her mouth.

  The intensity of her response to his unrestrained desire stoked the flames of his passion, cauterizing everything in him but physical need—until she whispered his name. The voice in his ears didn’t belong to the woman his shattered heart had conjured a vision of the second he closed his eyes. It belonged to the woman between his hands.

  He pulled away, tipping his head back and breathing deep in an effort to clear his head. But even that failed, because her perfume swam in his lungs as much as the taste of her lingered in his mouth. Jesus, help me.

  Her fingertips slid along his jaw. “What’s wrong?”

  He opened his eyes to meet her gaze. “Me.”

  She studied him for a long moment, and then her hands fell away. “I’m not her.”

  “Caelina…” He rubbed the back of his neck. What could he say that wouldn’t wound her more than he just had?

  She slid away from him and curled her knees to her chest. “You don’t have to say anymore.” Her head came to rest on her knees and her mouth formed an uneven smile. “I think I understand at last what I’ve made Torren feel.”

  “He cares for you a great deal.”

  Her head snapped up. “Don’t defend him. If you did not send for me, he must have in your name.”

  “If that’s true, he’ll have more reason to be wounded by it than you.”

  “Why?”

  Right now he didn’t know who to pity more, Torren or Caelina. He hoped it didn’t show in his eyes as he answered her. “Because you came.”

  “Of course I did. I thought you…” Her gaze moved to the floor. “Oh.”

  She rose and stared down at him. “Well, treachery or not, he will have his way. I’ll see him, though not the way I imagine he’s hoping.” Her brow wrinkled and her mouth twisted, like she’d tasted bitter herbs. “What’s that in your belt?”

  Jonathan followed her gaze to the arm of the doll poking out of the wide leather at his waist. He stood and pulled the doll free, remembering the faces of Ramses’ wife and children. “A gift from a friend.”

  Caelina reached for the doll, practically yanking it from his fingers. “You are the most peculiar man I have ever known.” She turned it over and over several times in her hands, admiring the thin leather cords that formed the joints, the tiny wooden sword twined in one hand, and the charcoal face that had been drawn on its rounded head. Her eyes grew misty, and she shoved the doll back in his hands.

  She couldn’t hide the pain in her eyes. Stark and raw, the wounds behind them ran far deeper than unrequited affection.

  “If I could see your heart, Caelina, would it look like my back?”

  Her eyes widened and she swallowed.

  A yes. “There is healing and comfort in God. Days like today, He’s the only way I survive. I pray you accept the gift of Christ I spoke of that day and find peace.”

  The hunger for truth flared in her eyes. But in the next breath, it vanished and she retreated within herself again. The sultry smile returned, but it didn’t fill her face. “I’ll pray too. That you forget Nessa and one day love me instead.”

  He could sooner pull the sun from the sky, but he wouldn’t tell her. He’d hurt her enough already. “God knows the man meant for you. With you as a wife at his side, such a man will be richer than Caesar.”

  She blushed, which he’d never seen her do before. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “As is Nessa,” she whispered in his ear. Her embrace closed around him, her perfume washing over him again. She drew back, her face once again a beautiful mask of perfect poise, despite her red-rimmed eyes. “Goodbye, Jonathan.”

  He watched her leave, and closed the door to lean his forehead against the smooth wooden planks. He remained there a long moment, making certain he’d regained control over his emotions. Eventually he made his way to his table, trading the doll in his hand for the half-full cup of wine. He wished for more, but the rest was now a drying stain on the walls and floor among the broken pieces of clay that had held it. He bent and picked up a sha
rd, remembering another broken pitcher.

  “Nessa, I will come for you.” He set the piece of clay on the table. “If it’s the last thing I do in this life, I will come for you.”

  “The master summons you,” the voice said again, something shaking his foot.

  Jonathan opened his eyes to find Ica holding a lamp at the foot of his bed. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. “What?”

  “The master summons you.”

  From the disarray of Ica’s hair and slave tunic, he’d been awakened as well. “How long since sunset?”

  “A few hours. The master is waiting for you in the yard.”

  Jonathan pulled on his tunic and sandals, praying for restraint. It didn’t take an oracle to know this was about Caelina, Ramses, or both. He padded down the dark hall toward the training area. The outer doors of the villa stood open, and Jonathan stepped through the doorway into the light of a full moon. Ica didn’t follow.

  Torren stood statue still in the moonlight, sword in hand. From this distance, Jonathan couldn’t tell if the weapon was wood or steel. He wore only a tunic. No belt or sandals. Jonathan crept forward, his unease growing with every step. Another sword lay on the ground between them. Torren pointed his blade at the one in the sand. “Pick it up.”

  Jonathan reached down to collect the wooden training sword without dropping his gaze. “It’s late for sparring, isn’t it?”

  Torren swung his sword in smooth arcs above his head. “You know the first rule of my ludis. Never strike another man in anger, outside of contest or training. In my entire life, all thirty-four years, I’ve broken it one time.” He stilled the sword midair and dropped low in the moonlight—into opening position. “To keep from breaking it again, I’m arming you first. Now tell me, did you kiss her?”

  Jonathan’s entire body tensed, tightening his grip on the wooden sword. “Torren, I—”

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Torren charged. The sharp crack of wood on wood echoed in the courtyard, frightening away birds roosted in the eaves of the villa. The sudden whoosh of hundreds of wings surrounded them. Their wooden blades locked together at the hilt and became a contest of strength as Jonathan pressed.