by Lydia Pax
With Flamma gone, Conall was clearly the best gladiator the ludus had left—but Publius would not position him as such, and it drove Conall mad.
No one in the ludus had a better winning record than he did. No one riled the crowds like he did. No one displayed as much skill and ferocity as he did. And yet, he was short-changed every day of the games, kept below the main event simply because he did not have the look of a champion that the stolid Publius wanted.
It was pride to think of himself this way, but it was also a necessity. If he had learned nothing else from life, it was that no one was going to stand up for Conall but Conall. He had to have the case for his talent and ability ready to unload whenever the chance presented itself—for it would not come twice.
“You’re looking well.”
Leda’s voice calmed his thoughts, as it often did. She had left the cell to retrieve him water.
He was on his hands and knees now, stretching out his back and rotating hips from one side to another. She stood over him, wearing a white stola with a plain wool belt cinched tight around her waist. It didn’t matter that she had left mere minutes ago—the sight of her always took his breath away. It was a miracle he still lived under her care at all, given how much he had to look at her and how much he had to breathe.
“Thank you. I think I’ll be ready soon. Maybe tomorrow.”
She made a face. “Perhaps a week. I’ll let Nyx know.”
“She doesn’t know my body half as well as you do. I’ll be ready inside of a week, and you know it.’
“You are stubborn enough for it.”
Leda set the small amphora of water down at his desk. It smelled of citrus; in the water were pieces of lime and lemon, torn and tossed in the trough the gladiators used. The citrus kept the water smelling sweet.
Something about the sight of her then—the way her head turned as she set the water, the curve of her jaw, the flexing of the muscles in her back—awakened something inside of him. Something unstoppable, something that had to be heard.
He took her by the hand and sat her down on the stool next to him, putting himself on his cot. Her hair, dark and long, slid briefly over his arm and he felt his breath catch.
“What is it?” she asked. “Are you hurt? Shall I call for Nyx? I knew you shouldn’t have—”
“No. It’s not that. I have something to tell you.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. She could tell. “Oh, Conall. Maybe we had better—”
“I love you, Leda. I do. I know it in my bones that I do. I want to be with you. I don’t want to dance around it any longer. You’ve seen how I look at you and you must know how I feel. I don’t want there to be any mistake. This life is too short. Even were I not a gladiator, it’s too short, and every day is too long when I don’t get to tell you I love you.”
She gulped softly and turned away from the intensity of his gaze.
“That’s…nicely said, Conall.”
Not exactly the response he was hoping for. A slow grip began to form around his chest.
“And you? What are your feelings for me?”
She stood. He could see some conflict on her face, though which direction it headed on, it was impossible to say.
“I am…not to be a slave for much longer, I do not expect. Not much longer at all. You know my family is…” she made a clicking noise in her mouth, “…of a certain status. Far above yours. Even were you a free man, and I still a slave, I would be above you in this way. Do you understand?”
“No. I want you and I can see that you want me. I’ve seen it. I know what desire looks like.”
“Desire?” Her voice became distant. “No. You are mistaken.”
In his urgency, his hands slid up her arm, clasping her tight.
“You do not need to lie to me, Leda. We are the same, here, in this place. No matter where you are from, this is where you are.”
She withdrew from him as if touched by a snake. Conall knew with dread certainty that he had gone too far. She stood up and walked to the other side of the cell, anger flaring.
“What you have taken for desire in your simple, beast brain has been little more than fascination at seeing someone clearly so stupid display so much intelligence.”
Conall did his best not to be convinced. “And my body is both intelligent and stupid, to make you touch it how you do?”
“I administer medical attention. You read too much into such things. You constructed a fantasy for yourself.” Her tone softened, her face composing itself almost immediately. She really was a princess, to mold her mood like that. “I do not blame you. Were I in your situation, I would have done the same.”
“You are in my situation, Leda. And you constructed a fantasy yourself, that you will be freed soon. Do you think you’re the first slave I’ve known to believe in their incumbent freedom?”
This was a step too far again—after he’d already ventured far deeper than he should have. Freedom was a subject little talked about among slaves. An unspoken rule in any conversation about the topic was to never suggest—through word or implication—that freedom was improbable. A slave lived on hope.
Regret filled him. He’d had her. She had been coming to him every day, talking with him, touching him. It had been near Heaven.
And just like always, Conall had wanted more. Waves of self-loathing filled him. Why did he have to open his idiot mouth?
Her face had turned cold. “Clearly, you are feeling much better. On your feet. Recovering well. I expect you will do something characteristically stupid soon, like returning to training before you should. I’ll let Nyx know your senses, such as they are, have returned. And I’ll be out of your way. I shall let you sort out this fantasy of yours on your own.” She stopped at the cell doorway. “I do not love you, Conall. I could not find love, or a future, with anyone such as yourself. Lowborn. Fighting for a living. And poor—even with the winnings from a thousand fights, you would still yet be poor compared to me. You certainly may find love in this life, but it will not be with me.”
Chapter 13
Out of the cell blocks. She walked in the shade to avoid the notice of the training gladiators for as long as possible.
The lead doctore Murus would yell at her if she ventured too close—she was an “exotic distraction” in the mind of the gladiator trainer.
Up the stairs. No eye contact with anyone. They were not to see her face; the frozen mask she used to hide the swell of emotion just almost bubbling over.
The guards let her through the gates, and she continued upward.
Behind the estate, there was a small pocket of land between the hill and the walls of the garden. She retreated there now, holding herself tight.
What she had said to Conall had been the brutal, honest truth. It flew in the face of a great many of her emotions, though, and they had all howled with protest as every new word left her mouth. Now those emotions had reached a rioting point.
The nook behind the garden was a safe place to let it all out. She shuddered and groaned, kicking at the dirt of the hill.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Stupid, insane, beast of a man. Why had he broken the silence? Why did it have to be out in the open, displayed for everyone to see? Why did it have to be anyone’s business at all except for the thoughts in their heads, forever silent and tranquil? Like a drop of water in a perfect semi-sphere on marble, the thoughts of whatever affection she felt had been transparent, lovely, and most of all fragile.
There was no tolerance for any shift in the surface tension, and Conall had just quaked the very earth.
She did not cry. She was not some child. She was merely furious. Annoyed.
And crushed.
She had been speaking to herself as much as him. She could not be with the man. It was impossible to think of, and even more impossible to make happen. Every part of her life was dedicated to returning her brother to freedom and returning herself to her family.
Some surely-doomed relationship, wit
h a gladiator of all people, would have destroyed those dreams. A princess in her country had her marriage—and so her love, if ever there were to be any—completely arranged. And she was expected to be pure of heart and virgin in experience. If even the slightest suspicion were placed on her, it would ruin her chances for marriage forever, and so destroy any real value she had to her family—in turn destroying any chances she had to return home.
Her body may have wanted Conall. Her mind may have drifted from time to time to the thought of what those strong arms might have felt like wrapped around her body. Holding her tight, perhaps, or holding her underneath him as he had his furious, animalistic way with her. It would have been ecstasy. Her body melted with the thought of it, and ached to return to him right away and fall into bed with him.
But her mind knew better, and her mind always won.
Chapter 14
Conall found Publius in the kitchen, butchering a pig alongside the cook.
The ludus was under hard times. The previous owner had been a woman named Porcia. She was beautiful and temperamental, driven entirely by her passions. Her two biggest passions were for ostentatious decoration and gambling. As one might expect, these did not mesh well.
Eventually, it was her passion that ended her life.
But, during her life, Porcia had driven the entire estate into so much debt that it would have been impossible to keep track of all the lenders, were they not knocking on the doors every day informing Publius of the amounts he owed.
Publius, to his credit, seemed to take this information with as much grace as he could. He was a stoic man—living by their philosophy in every manner—and did not place much stock in any excess of emotion. And so, as he butchered the pig now, chopping one leg clean, his face was focused entirely on his task.
Part of the hard times that the ludus suffered meant that if a slave earned enough to buy their freedom, or died, or fell sick, that Publius could not easily afford new slaves to replace them. He could buy poor slaves, but Publius was a man of standards, and purchasing something he had to train would have taken more time than he wanted away from other, better pursuits like figuring out a way to pay off all the debts his house was under.
This much Conall knew from Leda, who caught much of the gossip of the day from her quarters inside the house proper. It was as much as Conall had learned of the inner-workings of the ludus in the time since he had arrived there. But, it also confirmed much of what he had suspected already from his interactions with Publius and his observations of Porcia’s spending.
He pushed thoughts of Leda aside. There was only heartache there—and limitless desire he feared never to have quenched.
“You’re looking well, gladiator.”
Conall nodded. His ribs were taped still, but they felt whole and mended. The black conversation with Leda had been just yesterday. Conall had spent many hours considering what she said, hoping to find some hole in her logic. Some manner to be with her, no matter the differences in class.
“There are games in a month’s time, Dominus, are there not?”
“Yes.” Publius hacked at the leg with a large cleaver. “We will celebrate the many victories of Trajan. Do you feel well enough for them? Nyx told me you were close to ready.”
“I do, Dominus. I want to fight.”
“Good.” Having detached the leg, Publius slapped it down on the table, discarding excess. “We’ll find a match for you.”
“In the primus.”
“What?”
“I want to fight in the primus, Dominus. I will put down any man they can place against me.”
Publius nodded and cleaned his hands with a cloth before answering. “Who fights in the primus is yet to be determined, gladiator. There are a great many factors involved. Imperial agents to talk to. And to bribe.” He let out a sigh, as in exasperation already from the ordeal of it. “Gears to oil and people to please. We will know more later on.”
All of this Conall had been told before, when he had broached the subject in the past.
“But when you know,” pressed Conall, “when you know more, when you can make the decision, I want you to put my name on the list. I want to be the one you use.”
“You are a gladiator. It’s only natural to want to be the best.”
Another non-answer.
“I would like straight talk from you, Dominus. You talk straight with everyone but me. Will you put me in the primus if given a chance?”
Hands clean, Publius chopped his cleaver into the wooden block of the table. It was nicked with many such marks from previous butchery.
“I think you are a good gladiator, Conall. I think the crowd enjoys you. I think you fight with everything you have. But the primus represents this entire ludus. The legacy of this house. And you…” He removed the smock around his neck, allowing the cook to take it. “You don’t represent the values of this house, Conall. I must take the long view, not cash in on some short-term fling with the mob. The crowd wants their champion to be a god among men, not an animal let loose into the fray. Otherwise the champion of Puteoli would be a lion.”
Conall frowned. “They kill the lions after beast fights even when they win, Dominus.”
“Yes. And so it is lucky for the men who fight as beasts that the same does not happen to them.” Publius put a hand on his shoulder. “You have made a solid place for yourself. Keep winning. Collect your winnings. Perhaps some day you may find some better station. But do not aspire to a place above your own. All men are placed in classes for a reason, and yours is not the top.”
Chapter 15
“He is right, you know.”
Conall stepped out from the kitchen to see Septus waiting at the door.
Septus was an old gladiator, fully retired from a life of fighting. Tall, with black hair that had turned mostly gray, he was a lean man who—like many gladiators—looked as tough as a slab of marble. Conall and Septus had always gotten along, though had never been very close. With their mutual friends Lucius and Caius gone from House Varinius, they had only grown more distant. Septus was too serious for Conall’s tastes, though his seriousness was probably why Publius put so much stock in his opinion.
He worked as a doctore, specifically for the heavily-armored secutor class of fighters. He had the role also of being the leader of the gladiator collegium, a sort of guild for the gladiators of House Varinius. Certain percentages of their winnings were donated to the collegium after every fight. These donations were piled up and kept for the needs of them all—funerals, burials, sometimes medical bills. Since Septus had taken over, he had even begun to put together small retirement bonuses, so that a fighter leaving the ludus would have a little money to keep him on his feet as he returned to the world.
“Publius is right? About me not being able to fight in the primus?”
“The Dominus is right, yes. You should not fight in the primus. That last man you fought, the secutor? He slapped you around for nearly half an hour before you beat him. You’re slipping.”
Conall bristled. “I let him do that.”
“Oh yes. I forgot how your ribs were in need of breaking.” Septus shook his head. “Do not take me for a fool. Perhaps you wanted to make a point that you were as tough as any man, but no one lets anyone take a foot to their midsection when they’re face down in the sand. You were hurt, and not on purpose.”
Conall’s mouth twitched. “A mistake. One easily learned from. I should be in the primus, and you ought to know that better than anybody. I’ve been on a winning streak a mile long.”
“The crowd doesn’t care about wins as much as you think. I lost plenty of matches in my time, and still they loved me.”
“They care about the Titan’s wins.”
“The Titan? Is that your point of reference now? If so, we should gather you in front of a mirror. I think you’ve forgotten what you look like in your bed rest.”
The thought crossed Conall’s mind to hit Septus. Then they would see who stood above who.
But he pushed the thought aside. His mood was dark enough without having hit a friend.
“What do you want, Septus? To bring me down?”
“No. I want you to feel firm in the foundation that you are. This ludus needs men like you. But it also needs men like you doing what men like you do. You put on good shows that keep the crowd entertained—and you make them want more.”
“I can do that in the primus.”
“But you won’t. And the sooner you accept that, the better you’ll be.”
Conall’s displeasure was evident. Septus’s face shifted slightly.
“I tell you what,” he said. “Part of the Dominus’s problem is that he doesn’t know how much to trust you. Your beard puts him off, I think.”
“You have a beard.”
Septus shrugged. “Next to yours? Not hardly.” He put up his hands. “Look. I’ve a job given to me by the Dominus. He asked me to round up a good, trustworthy man for it. You do this job for him, and you’ll rise in his estimation. Enough elevations in his opinion, and the primus comes ever closer to being yours. How about that?”
It was not much of a hope—but it was the only one Conall was being given.
“What sort of job?”
“It’s easy. He has slaves he sends out into the city for work. You would guard them from harm. A simple job. No one would come after you anyway.”
“Not if they know what’s good for them.”
“Exactly. What do you say?”
Chapter 16
They met in a dark alley between the twisting corridors of a series of apartments. It was a rather typical place for such a meeting, but then, Vahram believed that many typical places, items, and presentations had become typical for exactly one reason—they worked.
There was no one in the alley now but for himself and the grifter who assured him that he could get Vahram whatever he wanted. The grifter was a short man, fat and pale, with a belly distended and soft. Vahram despised such weakness in a man.
