by Lydia Pax
“But not with most honors. And that is what I have earned.”
“What you have earned is a conversation between myself and the Gods, who have a much higher authority on your life than you do. Should you care to continue this conversation, gladiator, I assure you that you will not enjoy where it goes. We were lucky in that the governor did not mind your scuffle in the streets the other week. I shall not press that luck and have him see me dishonor him by putting a low fighter such as yourself in the primus.”
“And who will you put in my place? Diocles?” Conall shook his head. “Yes, I can see that’s who you want. He shall be the one to embarrass you, mark my words.”
Leda rose. “I should leave. Dominus, all these need is your signature. And the names you wish to place.” She pointed on the document. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Waving a hand, Publius nodded. “Leave us. Get some rest.”
She left, stopping only to glare briefly at Conall.
He was thoroughly puzzled at her look. Why was she mad at him? There was no time to wonder. Moments after she left, there was a knock at the doorway requesting entrance.
Chapter 30
At the outset, Conall knew he was fighting an uphill battle. He knew that he would have to strike swift and sure to knock away Publius’s well-constructed defenses against the thought of ever putting Conall in a place of honor.
And entering the room now was Septus—Septus, stubborn Septus, just as concerned with placement as Publius. Septus who would make Conall’s job twice as hard.
“Why is every gladiator I own still up at this late hour?”
“I did a tour of the cells,” said Septus, “and noticed that Conall was gone. I wanted to inform you, and now I see it was unnecessary. I will leave.”
Publius raised a hand. “No, stay. I want you to talk sense into this one.”
“Sense? Into Conall?”
“The governor has honored us. We are to place a fighter in the primus at the games.”
“That’s good news.” Septus’s eyes narrowed. “Oh. I see.”
“Yes. He is not satisfied with his purpose being ‘merely’ to raise the honor of this household. He wants the primus for himself.”
“Any fighter in this house that did not want the primus for himself,” said Conall, “is living a lie and hoping for a quick death. Ambition is how men stay alive in the arena, Dominus, by your own mouth and the mouth of your brother.”
Publius frowned. “Rufus did say that.”
They were silent for a time. Outside, there was a long jaunty song being sung by some drunken guest in the garden. Conall didn’t recognize the tune.
“What’s the match?” asked Septus. “Who would our gladiator fight, do we know?”
“No. I expect Felix from House Malleola. I don’t know who House Vibius might send. I’ll have a scout sent out to their school tomorrow.”
Scouting other ludi was a regular and expected part of the arena business. Most ludi simply gave a list of their fighters and who was best. Winning was important, but honor was paramount. There was little honor to be gained in deception.
“It’s a melee, Dominus?” asked Septus.
“Of a sort. Three men.”
Septus crossed his arms. He looked at Publius and then Conall, and his frown deepened.
“Neither of you are going to like what I have to say,” he said.
“I would prefer the truth from you, Septus,” said Publius. “You know that.”
The salty warrior sighed. “You should put him in the primus, Dominus. But not—” he wagged a finger at Conall’s elated face, “—not for the reasons you might want. The fight is a dangerous one. Three men at once … there is no reliable way to form a defense. Any man entering is very likely to die. A lucky man might only be severely injured. The referees will keep the fighters from taking a backseat and letting the other two fight. At every point, a man will have to fight two men at once.”
“As a dimachaerus, he’s already used to fighting with both hands, so that is one advantage,” said Publius.
“And we both know,” Septus said to Publius, “where the future lies. And it would be a shame to risk it in an endeavor such as this. A man killed in this fight is not blamed—it is the fight that is blamed. And a man that wins, well, he earns great honor for the ludus and himself. But the likelihood is that even in a win, the winner will be injured.”
Septus was right. Conall didn’t like how he was being sold. But it didn’t matter. A chance was a chance was a chance, and even one sold as an insult was more than what he’d had before.
“I’ll fight this fight,” said Conall. “You put me in there. I’ll come out unscathed. I’ll come out ready for the next primus at the very next games.”
Septus and Publius exchanged glances.
“I doubt that very much,” said Publius. “But Septus speaks sense. You are worthy enough of this ludus that you will not be a dishonorable addition to the fight, especially given the governor’s appreciation of your skills. And if you die…” he rolled his eyes heavenward. “…if you die, then the gods have given me a gift one way or the other. Very well, Conall. You shall have your primus.”
Chapter 31
Days were hard and stupid when Leda did not get enough sleep. Thoughts came slower, feelings acted too fast, and every action unfolded like a catastrophe because her body only knew how to send alarm signals on her frayed nerves.
And despite all that, she did all her work the day after the party with as much fastidiousness as she could muster. Holding no excuses, she cleaned and swept, picked up and placed all items discarded and tossed aside for the party.
There was a serious talk to be had with Conall. She had no intentions of being delayed for any reason by the time the evening rolled by.
Their custom had been to meet toward the back of the medicae’s office toward the end of the day. It was impossible to hide their relationship from Nyx—she seemed to know everything that happened in the ludus—so the two of them assumed they may as well embrace it.
Conall could make any excuse after training to see the medicae and, as a plus, Leda did not have to wander all the way down to the cell blocks of the gladiators and hear their cat calls.
When she met him today, he smiled like an idiot, arms held wide to embrace her.
“I’m in the primus!”
She just crossed her arms. There were a number of ways to express disappointment. Some women Leda knew would try—and fail—to express happiness with a decision, and end up sounding bored or annoyed anyway.
This would, by design, lead to questions about the woman’s mood—“Aren’t you happy for me?” and all of that.
Leda had always thought a direct course of action was best.
“I know. And you’re insane. You shouldn’t do it.”
Conall’s smile faded instantly. Leda regretted her words—she could see right away her reaction was directly against something he very much wanted. Probably he wanted a kiss, or several. Congratulations and assurances that he would be terrific.
Well, too bad. Her arms crossed harder.
“I know you’re excited. And I’m sorry. But I just don’t think you should be in that fight. I don’t think—”
I don’t think you should be in any fight, she almost said. But that was stupid. He had to fight. It wasn’t as if there was a choice in the matter. And if he had to fight, why not be in the best possible fight?
“—I’m just…it seems too dangerous.”
He laughed grimly. “Sure. And the other ones up until now, those have been no problem?”
“The other fights you had before now were before I cared.” She swallowed. “Very much, anyway.”
Some light returned to his face now, glimmers of hope sparkling in his eyes. “And now you care very much?”
“I…” she made fists with both hands. “I care about you listening to reason. That fight is too dangerous for any man.”
“Not for any man. Just the two w
ho will enter the arena with me. I’ll put them down, and you’ll see that I’m right.”
He spoke confidently, but there was sadness behind his words. Sadness that she had brought to him. Her heart ached suddenly. She knew she was right—why did this have to be so complicated? Why was affection such a bag of mysteries to her? If he would only see…
And yet even if somehow he didn’t fight two men at once—two men trying to kill one another just as much as they tried to kill him—even then it would still be some other fight that probably she would find way too dangerous.
She wasn’t thinking logically, which she hated—and blamed him for it. Leda was not used to having emotions take a hold of her, and Conall was clearly the source of her emotions.
Just being near him now, all she wanted to do was drop this conversation and take him in his arms. Heavy urges to layer his face with kisses and bite at his neck and shoulders pushed at her like strong winds.
“I…” she shook her head. “I don’t want you to fight. That’s all. I don’t want you hurt. I’ve had enough of that.”
His face morphed entirely from fear into complete understanding. He took her in his arms. For some reason—probably some thoroughly ridiculous emotional reason—Leda was glad that he did. They did not kiss that night for their time together, and yet somehow, it felt all the more intimate for it. He merely held her in his strong, sure arms, with that insanely steady heartbeat, and she forgot about her worries like he always made her do.
Chapter 32
In the five days between the day of the party and the games, Conall trained as hard as he ever had.
On the third day, his opponents were revealed.
The first was Felix, as expected, from House Malleola. He was an excellent fighter—the Champion of Puteoli. Conall had wanted to face him in the arena for a long time now. He fought in the murmillo style, and was as good as any Conall had ever seen. The murmillo was heavily armored, and armed with a razor-sharp gladius.
Some years ago, Conall’s friend Caius had fought Felix in the arena and won just by a hair.
The other opponent was named after the Egyptian god of violence, Set. He was an Egyptian himself, a long-limbed man with deep black skin, born of other slaves bound from other countries in the African continent.
There was talk that he had arrived one day with chains already on his hands, fresh from the endless desert to the South. Such talk was only talk, but still, a man had to wonder. Set fought as a thraex—a fighter who was in many ways the opposite of the murmillo, lightly armored and relying heavily on mobility.
Murus pitted Conall against two men at once in the sands during his sparring sessions to give him a taste of what to expect. One always a thraex, the other always a murmillo. Given another three weeks, Conall would have felt confident that he could walk out without a scratch, as befit his boast.
Given the time he had, he felt he had a slender chance of survival, which sounded more than anyone else would give him.
The other gladiators looked at him as if he were a dead man. The cook at mealtimes gave him an extra half-ration to his meals with his sympathies. Amphoras of wine were sent his way at night, which he always declined, passing them on to other gladiators.
Wine was for winners—and he had not won anything yet.
The worst part was Leda. Any time he brought up the fights or the strategies in their time together, she shut down completely. She refused to listen to him, refused to hear him say word one about how he hoped to win or what his fears were in the fight.
Her visible dislike of what he wanted shook him.
It was difficult, more difficult than anything he had ever imagined, seeing all that fear in the face of the woman he loved.
He wished to all the gods he could tell her he loved her again. Too much of a burden on her to answer, though, and he did not want to test her out prematurely and be rejected. It was a stupid thought, but somehow he thought that just the fact of their shared love could offer him some protection.
That was wrong and he knew it. He knew plenty of men in love who had died in the arena. They walked as if their affection had given them some sort of armor—they took risks they did not need to because they thought the stars themselves would push out of their way in honor of the emotions they carried in their chest.
These were stupid men. Conall was many things, and often he acted stupidly, but he felt he could boast evenly that he was not a stupid man.
His days were only training. At night, he saw Leda and kissed her and pretended not be bothered by how much she hated that he would fight. He slept uneasily, wishing somehow there was a way to make things as right with her as he wanted.
They spoke often of her family and how she wanted to free her brother.
“When you’re done with him, I have another name you can put at the top of your list for freeing.”
It took her a moment before she caught the joke. She smiled. “And how will you fight if you’re a free man?”
“There are many fights in this life, Princess. I expect I’ll find one at your side somehow.”
This, strangely, calmed her somewhat—his desire for freedom. He was a slave, after all, and though he lived now for the arena, he knew that at some point or another, that was a life that would have to change.
That he wanted something beyond living out his last breath in the arena was a surprise to her. He never talked about it—and so maybe it was a surprise to him, too.
On the day before the games began, he and the other gladiators were paraded through town on a wagon. They went shirtless, as gladiators always did, and flexed and preened before the dirty throngs outside.
It was easy for the common and the uneducated to think the gladiators approaching some apotheosis in the arena. The mob was often dirty, underfed, and riddled with sickness. Each gladiator was in peak physical condition, their skin shining with oils, their every movement sure and confident. That a gladiator could become immortal in his work was reinforced with every presentation of their visage and pronouncement of their skills.
The wagon holding the fighters from House Varinius followed the wagons from House Malleola and House Vibius. And so Conall’s opponents, Felix and Set, came before him. He could see the eyes of the crowd as they looked him up and down. They doubted he would live through the primus.
Set was an imposing force unto himself, seeming to draw the air and sound around him. His face was stone, and his black skin weathered with heavy scars. The crowd already knew Felix—who fought under the name Hector, after the Trojan hero—and knew him to be a terror in the ring. His only loss in the past several years was to Caius.
Conall steeled his will against their doubting eyes. There would be many more yet tomorrow.
He would fight in the primus. He would prove himself in the eyes of gods and men.
And himself. He could not forget that. There would have been no Conall without the primal driving force of doubt powering the whole of his machinations.
He carried their doubt, and his, even later that night as he tried to sleep. It was a hard duty before a fight, and for this fight more than most.
If he had expected some last-minute effort from Leda to talk him out of his decision to fight—inasmuch as it could possibly be seen as his decision—he was disappointed. She did not show up the night before the fight at their meeting place. Nyx informed him that she had been detained with work by Publius.
The life of a slave was never his or her own.
And so, in a blur of training and display and Leda and love and rage, the day of the games was at hand.
The governor did his best to ensure there was much to be celebrated—he wanted the games in Puteoli to be talked about in all of Rome. And specifically, in the city of Rome itself. To that end, he had shipped in more than twenty lions, fifty antelope, twelve bears, three dozen wolves, ten boars, and over eight dozen prisoners. All would be dead before the end of the day.
As the wagon train of House Varinius approached th
e arena yet again, Conall could hear the beasts. There was sorrow in their cries—sorrow so deep it was hard to hear among the cacophony of the gathered voices of all the animals and all the crowds in the city. But it was there.
It was a sorrow about loss, about never knowing their home.
A sorrow of being captured against their will and made to fight in an arena for the bloodlust of men and women in a city that cared only for the quality of their struggle.
Conall was such a beast, trapped in a cage of his own. But the cage only existed if he did not believe in redeeming his life through glory in the arena.
Chapter 33
She found Conall in the underbelly of the arena. He was leaning against a wall, stretching out his calves. She stopped in her pace for a moment to admire him. He had such a lovely body. She felt like she could watch him stretch all day.
If Leda were to ever free herself and him—and hadn’t that been a good idea from the man—she was going to reserve a room in an inn somewhere just for the two of them. They would stay there for a week, and all she would do is feed him and watch him move his muscles for her.
It had been easy to slip away from the box seats where Publius sat with the governor and the other noble guests of honor. She’d asked another slave to cover for her. The pretty young brunette had winked at her knowingly.
“We’d all like to sneak one in with a gladiator before his fight. Have fun.”
Leda hadn’t had the time to inform her that “sneaking one in” was not on the agenda. The two of them had not yet even deliberately and happily placed one in, and so sneaking one in was tantamount to theft.
Their first time together would be perfect.
If it happened.
If Leda let it happen, which of course she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She was a princess and he was a gladiator, and though he was very good for kissing and holding, and though her every waking moment with him made her body blaze with unending desire, their relationship ended there.
