by Nadia Aidan
The Winged Serpent
An Order of the Oath Book
By Nadia Aidan
Resplendence Publishing, LLC
http://www.resplendencepublishing.com
The Winged Serpent
Copyright © 2012 Nadia Aidan
Edited by Darlena Cunha and Liza Green
Cover art by Les Byerley, www.les3photo8.com
Published by Resplendence Publishing, LLC
2665 N Atlantic Avenue, #349
Daytona Beach, FL 32118
Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-518-2
Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Electronic Release: June 2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
Ostia, The Imperial Roman Empire, 31 CE
The temple of Minerva was a winding labyrinth of hidden chambers, arched vestibules and marble columns. For the citizens of the Roman Empire, those who lived in the thriving port city of Ostia, they saw only the beautifully sculpted statues of Minerva’s visage when they came to worship the war goddess. The secrets buried deep within the bowels of the temple were known only to a chosen few—and Aurora was among those chosen.
She treaded softly through the chambers beneath, the fire burning in the oil lamps lighting her path as she wandered the maze of tunnels. Aurora made her way toward the quarters of her mentor and friend, stopping just beyond the entryway where she rapped against the open door with a faint knock.
“You wished to see me?” Aurora whispered upon entering the modest room where a small fire crackled in the hearth, casting its occupant in a burnished haze of amber and auburn.
“Yes, Aurora, please come in,” Olympia replied as she stood from her perch upon a stool, her flaxen hair seeming to shimmer in the firelight as it framed a face as beautiful as it was handsome, as stern as it was sensual.
Olympia—high priestess of The Order’s branch within Ostia.
She was not a particularly lovely woman. And yet, to gaze upon her, one was eerily mesmerized, enthralled by the uniqueness of her features, the spellbinding intensity of her emerald eyes. Aurora had decided long ago that Olympia’s success as a Keeper within The Order, the reason for her rise to power, had more to do with her unusual absence of beauty than the beauty she did possess.
“I have another task for you.” Olympia’s voice was hushed, as if she was ever mindful of the dangerous nature of their positions, of their duties, even though their secrets were carefully guarded within these walls.
“You have long served the goddess and The Order,” she continued, “And your successes have honored The Empire—they have honored me.”
Aurora nodded at the praise, even as she remained quiet. Many months had passed since her last mission, and her heart hammered in anticipation of another duty, one she’d feared would never come, not after her last assignment—
“What I ask of you, I realize is beyond what I should.” Olympia turned from Aurora and began pacing quietly in the small room. “But you are the only one I may trust with this mission, though I must be direct with you. This is a very dangerous assignment.”
As they all were, Aurora acknowledged, but when Olympia paused, her eyes brimming with concern, along with something else—a deeper, darker emotion—Aurora’s belly twisted into knots.
She gleaned the root of Olympia’s hesitation, and before her friend could finish, Aurora reached out to clasp her hands, her eyes steady.
She wanted to assure Olympia that she was ready, that the ghosts of her past, her last assignment even, did not still haunt her, but Aurora could not promise Olympia that.
“For many years, you have been my mentor and friend,” Aurora said finally. “But my duty is to The Order and to The Empire. Whatever my fate, you cannot blame yourself, for I took an oath and that was my decision alone.”
Aurora spoke the truth. She could not promise Olympia she was ready, only that her friend should not suffer if Aurora did not come back. Her words were meant to ease the mind, but Olympia did not appear reassured.
As a high priestess of the Order of Hesperia—a sacred sisterhood of women pledged to the service of the goddess of war and The Roman Empire—Olympia felt a personal responsibility for all the women recruited into The Order under her, for all the women who died in their service to The Order on behalf of her.
Yet, to Olympia, Aurora was different.
Their bond was special, the closeness they shared, born of blood and sacrifice.
Aurora remained silent, waiting for Olympia to speak, and when she did, the words flowing in dulcet tones from Olympia’s lips—Aurora’s entire body stilled, the blood in her veins slowing until it froze completely.
She understood then why Olympia worried for her, why she believed what she asked of Aurora was too great.
“You may not survive this,” Olympia whispered long after Aurora had been told of the entirety of her mission, and a strained silence stretched between them.
Fear crawled inside of her belly. It was a fear she’d hoped never to face again. She could refuse Olympia’s request, ask her to find another, and her friend would understand. Aurora closed her eyes, her every breath clawing through her chest. She was the best among The Order because she had never declined a mission, and every assignment she undertook she accomplished, no matter how dangerous, and in spite of the cost to herself, to her soul.
Aurora’s lashes lifted, and immediately her gaze was drawn to the depiction stained into the wall above Olympia’s head. Her fears began to quiet, the vision before her renewing her will. A long red serpent was coiled up tight, its head raised, its fangs bared, ready to strike, while golden bird-like wings stretched out behind it, encompassing the entire space. It was a symbol, the mark of The Order, an allusion to the warrior women who’d taken the oath.
The wings of the bird appeared feather soft, a testament to a woman’s gentler nature, the serpent, a testament to a woman’s wrath. From the lowest slave, to the emperor’s wife, there was The Order.
The women of The Order—they were as beautiful as they were deadly, they were as seductive as they were dangerous, and they could be found everywhere, anywhere, and at any time.
As Aurora stared at the winged serpent her mind drifted to a time before Olympia, before The Order when she’d lived the life of a gladiatorial slave. Her master had been cruel. The scars she carried remained in both body and spirit. Her friendship with Olympia had been the start of a new beginning, a new life for Aurora. She would be dead if not for Olympia and The Order. To sacrifice her life for them both seemed such a small tribute to offer. She owed the woman before her so much more.
“I took an oath, “Aurora said finally. Like all the women of The Order of Hesperia, she’d taken an oath in blood, born out of pain and sacrifice. If death was her fate then so be it.
Aurora had taken an oath and she was bound to it for life.
* * * *
Days later, Aurora found herself within the city walls of Capena, a trade port along the Tiber, just northeast of Rome.
Capena was a growing city in both size and importance, and it shared a fierce rivalry with nearby Falerii for the dubious honor of being the seat of the greatest gladiatorial games and chariot races in all The Empire—besides Rome, of course.
Aurora did not know if that was truth or boast, but she imagined she would soon find out as she was ushered into the villa of Claudius Cicero Norbanus, the provincial governor of Capena.
Bound in chains, the stench of servitude and humility threatened to choke Aurora, the stench of the rank humans tied to her, threatened to curdle her stomach.
With a servant taking up the lead, Aurora was led down a series of stone steps, her sandaled feet taking each one gingerly, as her ankles remained connected to the ankles of the five other slaves who were bound to her.
She was joined by two men, and three women—they’d all been purchased on the auction blocks of Capena to enter the household of Norbanus. The men, their bodies honed with sinew and muscle, would find a place in the ludus—the place where gladiators were trained—if they were found worthy.
Aurora would never know how Olympia managed such things, who she’d bribed, who she’d blackmailed, who she’d possibly even killed to have Aurora inserted within the home of her target.
She tried not to dwell on how Olympia orchestrated such feats as she was escorted to the baths where she would be ordered to wash the filth of the auction block from her body before being presented to the household and her new master. Aurora tried not to dwell on the life she would live in the coming weeks, months—however long it took to complete her assignment.
Aurora tried to think only of her duty, her mission, her oath, but it was difficult.
She’d been without chains for so long. She’d lived her life as a free citizen in relative obscurity. To find herself now once again enslaved, no matter the purpose, no matter how temporary—Aurora breathed deep, quieting the furious beating of her heart, the fear crawling through her veins like trickling ice water.
No one, not even Olympia, knew the horrors she’d experienced in her former life. So no one, not even Olympia, knew how much this was costing Aurora, to return to not only the life of a slave, but to find herself once again within the walls of a ludus.
Aurora shuddered as the heavy gate slammed behind her, sealing her within the House of Norbanus. She was trapped. Her breaths raked through her until she felt suffocated. Fear burned like fire in her chest, her lungs already protesting the absence of fresh air. She felt as if she was suffocating, and for the first time in many years she stared into the eyes of her past and saw herself as she’d once been—alone and afraid.
She was alone and afraid once more she thought wryly, consoling herself with the only notion that would comfort her. What she faced now was not the same as the bleak existence she’d once endured. This was a mission, her duty, and, she reminded herself, it was temporary.
She drew in a deep, crisp breath of air, blowing it out softly, slowly. Her panic began to subside, and with it, her fear. However long it took to complete this mission was how long Aurora would stay, and not a single day more.
That was…if she managed to survive.
* * * *
Two guards hovered at his back, their bodies so close their warm breath fanned the hairs along his nape. With every step he took, Cyrus’ chains clinked and rattled as he was led from the cage where he was imprisoned within the ludus.
He was the champion of Capena, a gladiator unmatched and unrivaled by any who faced him, and yet, he was still subjected to this. He could go nowhere unless he was within chains, as if he was a wild animal—rabid and feral.
The hour was early, the vestibules of his master’s home vacant, as he was ushered along the open corridors. Cyrus cringed, the word master tensing every muscle within him. No man was his master, especially not Claudius Norbanus, the enfeebled Roman governor, who was a coward, less than a man. And yet, to all, he was Cyrus’ master. He owned Cyrus, his entire life, his very existence.
Cyrus was led into the triclinieum where the man who occupied his dark thoughts lounged on one of many couches, a cup of wine clasped firmly in one wrinkled hand.
Claudius was a man of slight height and stature, his body withered with age, though his mind remained sharp. Unlike most, he was not a cruel master, at least not unduly so, but he was given to the pampered overindulgence of his station. Claudius took what did not belong to him, whether it be women or objects. He discarded what was not his to discard, slaves or their children. While others toiled his lands, and died in the arena for sport and profit, Claudius was given to excess of a sensual nature. When he was not attending to his scant duties as the imperial governor of Capena—one of many lapdogs to the emperor—Claudius lazed about his days partaking of either wine or women.
“Remove him from these chains.” Claudius gestured to one of the guards. “He has no weapon, and I am his dominus, he shall do me no harm.”
If Claudius had been wiser, he would have realized the error of his words.
Cyrus’ tightly muscled body, honed from many battles, sculpted in the arena, was a weapon in its own right. He needed no weapon to do harm, and to think that he wished no harm upon his master, that he would do no harm to Claudius, given the very first opportunity, was idiocy. A slave who’d been born free, who’d once lived as a free man, longed for one thing, and would kill anyone, especially his master to have it back yet again.
“Welcome, my champion of Capena,” Claudius blustered, his arms, draped in a heavy woolen toga, spreading wide. “I imagine you must wonder why I have requested an audience with you at such an hour.”
Cyrus remained silent, his body rigid. He’d learned early on that to speak out of turn, when not directly questioned, was met with harsh punishment. The scars littering his back were a glaring testament.
“I have heard word that someone plots against my house, that there is treachery brewing in Rome which spills to Capena.”
Cyrus’ eyes widened. To be accused of plotting against one’s master was akin to treason, the punishment death.
“Ahhh, I see the look upon your face, but you mistake my purpose.” Claudius sat up, although he remained seated. “I know it is not you who has treacherous intentions, but neither do I know who it is that does. That is why I requested your presence.”
Cyrus’ gaze sharpened on the man.
“You are my most decorated gladiator, and you have served me faithfully and honored this house for more than three years.” Claudius regarded him with shrewd, assessing eyes. “And that is why I wish to give you your freedom.”
Cyrus did not know if he’d heard Claudius truly, for the blood thundered in his ears from his heart hammering hard within his chest.
“I shall give you your freedom, Cyrus, if you pay one last tribute to me.”
The elation Cyrus felt, the joy he’d not wanted to embrace vanished as quickly as it had come. He had known not to expect such generosity, such charity from Claudius. Cyrus was still the champion of Capena, and in turn, he earned quite a profit for the house of his master. Cyrus was still worth a great deal to Claudius, and he would remain so until he lost in the arena. To free him at the height of his glory would have been beyond charity, it would have been foolish.
“There is rumor of a plot against me,” Claudius continued. “And I would have your protection as my guard, as well as your eyes and ears as my spy.”
That raised Cyrus’ brows. “May I speak freely, dominus?” Cyrus asked finally.
With Claudius’ nod of permission, he questioned, “How is it I may serve you, dominus, as both your guard and your spy? I cannot be in two places at once.”
Claudius’ face abruptly broke into a smile as he wagged his finger in the air. “That is why I chose you, Cyrus. You have always been of a quick mind.”
Claudius sobered then, his smile fading. “I have many of my own guards to protect me. You, as my personal guard, would simply be for pretense. As my slave you are able to go places where I cannot, you will hear things that I do not. It is because I trust you, I will give you more freedom within the walls of my villa and when we attend the arena games. In turn, you shall report to me, under the guise of my personal guard.”
“And
if I discover who plots against you, I shall have my freedom?”
Claudius nodded. “And if you kill this traitor I shall not only free you, I will pay you well for your loyalty and service to me.”
Cyrus understood. A life for his freedom. The life of the man who plotted against his master. Cyrus experienced a moment’s regret, a measure of remorse, but as quickly as it came, it disappeared.
He’d once lived as a free man and still longed to reclaim that life. Not a day passed where he did not dream of his freedom, desire it, yearn for it. Cyrus was prepared to kill almost anyone to have his freedom, including a stranger.
With the nod of his head, Cyrus finally spoke, his voice firm, his words true.
“I will not fail you, dominus.”
* * * *
Three days had passed since he’d met with Claudius and the thought of being a spy and assassin for his dominus still turned Cyrus’ stomach, but when it did, he would remind himself, had he not killed in the arena for Claudius? Was that not worse? The ending of innocent life for sport? What he did in the arena was far less noble than desiring one’s freedom.
Cyrus assuaged his mind—and every other part of himself that had been broken and humiliated since he’d been enslaved—with the promise that he would soon be a free man once again. That was all he thought of, but he could do so no longer.
Firstly, he needed to succeed if he wished to leave this place, but more importantly, when not skulking about in the shadows as a spy, or reporting to Claudius, he still had his duties as doctoris, as well as his own gladiatorial instruction to attend to.
On this day, it was his position of doctoris, head trainer of the ludus, which took him into the heavily guarded chambers where all new slaves were held.
Cyrus was there to inspect the newly acquired men, to determine if any were worthy to enter the ludus as a gladiatorial recruit, so he passed the chamber holding the women without interest and walked into the next room, a small earthen space where tiny fires burned from the oil lamps along the walls.
