by Nadia Aidan
At first he met her blows, deflecting her strikes, until he could do so no longer, until his arm yielded beneath her flurry. His last defense against her was his shield, which he wielded with expert skill, despite his fatigue. She experienced a moment’s admiration. The young man had heart, but he was just that, young and with it, inexperienced.
Aurora lifted her sword, prepared to strike, but waited until he lifted his shield in anticipation of the pounding of her blade against the wood.
Her strike did not come, at least not to his head. At the last moment, she crouched down and slashed at his calf sending him sprawling backwards, until his body slammed against the earth and he lay prostrate upon the ground.
When he opened his eyes the tip of her blade was pressed against his throat.
He raised two fingers, a signal within the arena that he was yielding, that he was conceding defeat.
His eyes were bashful, sheepish even, but when he grinned, she returned his smile with a nod of respect and stepped back, her sword falling to her side.
Her chest heaved, while streams of sweat poured down her body, and her hair was now a twisted, matted nest of curls, the long braid clinging to her drenched tunic.
She closed her eyes and drew it in—the sights, the sounds, the feeling of victory.
In that moment she was a gladiator once again, the mistress of the arena, beloved by all. The feeling was heady, its power corruptive, corrosive until it wore away every trace of one’s soul, until killing was no longer second nature, but the very nature of the wild, untamed beast a gladiator had to become.
Aurora started at the sound of applause, her eyes flying open in surprise. She tilted her head, following the steady beat.
Claudius Norbanus stood on his balcony, his smile broad.
“Well done, Aurora. Well done,” he shouted, still clapping. She dipped her head in a show of respect but when she raised it, he was already gone, as if she’d imagined him. The clapping had stopped.
In its absence, another sound replaced it, the sound of footsteps drawing near.
Aurora noticed then that Flavius had stood up and was walking out of the arena.
The footsteps she’d heard were not his. Instead they belonged to Cyrus who came to a stop before her.
She could no more discern his thoughts by looking at him than she could by gazing upon the barren earth. His eyes were empty, his face devoid of the barest hint of emotion.
She held still, her shield in one hand, her gladius in the other and waited.
* * * *
Though he was not winded, Cyrus’ breath came out as ragged pants as he neared the woman at the center of the arena.
Aurora.
She stood regal and proud, her head raised to the sky. She stood as a gladiator would upon victory, upon triumph.
She’d protested her skills were worn. Well, to Cyrus, it would not appear as such.
She’d outmaneuvered Flavius, almost as if not a single day had passed since she’d been upon the sacred and hallowed sands of the arena.
Cyrus begrudgingly gave her his respect, from one gladiator to the other, although he did not reveal she had it, in either word or deed.
But she did.
Just as she now had his full attention, unwavering in its intensity.
It was the way in which she commanded his gaze that had his breathing labored and his manhood swelling within the confines of his leather braca.
Aurora had fought with concerted focus and deadly precision, her movements decisive and strategic, her strikes meticulously chosen. Her discipline bespoke of diligent training, which he admired, but it was her eyes he’d found impossible to look away from when he should have been studying her battle form.
Her eyes had glowed bronze, her mass of unruly hair creating a halo around her. Aurora’s eyes had revealed the warrior’s heart, the warrior’s spirit. Cyrus had seen women gladiators before, but he’d never seen one such as her. She was as beautiful as she was fierce. She was as disciplined as she was untamed.
“Are you tired?” he asked, his body thrilling when she shook her head no. “Then lift your sword,” he instructed.
A smile curled her lips, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “So now that you see I am worthy, you wish to humble me with defeat?”
“Who said you were worthy?”
“You did not, I suppose. Though it is you who are not worthy. I do not believe there is any man within this ludus who can best me, not even you.”
His brows knitted together. “One victory and already you boast. I see there is still much for you to learn.” As he talked, he noticed she lifted her sword, and began to circle. He kept his gaze trained upon her, but he did not move his feet.
“You forget Cyrus, this is not my first time within a ludus—”
“But there is always more to learn.”
She stopped. “That is true of all.” Her eyes narrowed, and he did not move a muscle under the weight of her scrutiny. “But you do not believe you have anything left to learn.” Her lips crooked into a grin. “Who is the arrogant one now?”
“Are you quite done catching your breath?” he demanded, and watched as one delicately arched brow peaked, her grin fanning out across her face.
“You are not as clever as you think you are.”
His expression did not change, but his eyes flashed, providing the only hint that he found her amusing.
“And neither are you.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before she lifted her sword and attacked, their bodies colliding into one another. Unlike with Flavius, she did not wait for him to tire, for she knew such a tactic would result in her defeat. He was far more skilled than Flavius. His body far stronger, much more powerful, his movements quicker. She would expend herself by simply taking his blows. So she didn’t.
Instead she moved with a quickness she’d not shown in her fight with Flavius, she moved with a quiet grace that bespoke of training beyond her days in the arena. Cyrus did not underestimate her grace, or mistake it for gentleness. Every strike he met with his sword he felt vibrating through his entire body, to the very tips of his toes. He was as precise as she, choosing his advances carefully, the same for his retreats.
He admired her impressive skill, her battle tactics. She was a clever fighter. When he tried to overpower her with brute strength, she responded with swift, unrelenting advances, moving so fast he could not rely upon his strength. And she was faster than him, her lean body lighter than his as it twisted effortlessly through the air like a lioness springing into action upon scenting her prey.
Their skills were equally matched. Every maneuver he used, she countered. Every tactic she employed, he deflected. So when his strength failed him, followed by his speed, and his skill was countered by hers, Cyrus resorted to the only thing left to him.
When their bodies were weary and dripping in sweat, the silver moon shimmering above them, he stopped. Cyrus froze right there and lowered his sword, along with his shield.
The lines of concentration upon her face eased, her eyes filling with relief.
“Thank the gods,” she exclaimed, dropping her sword.
As soon as it hit the ground, he charged.
Her eyes widened and she brandished her shield, but it was already too late. He slipped past her defenses, and easily disarmed her, spinning her around so that her back was pressed to his front and his arm was wrapped securely about her neck, the tip of his blade nudging her throat.
“That was an underhanded trick,” she breathed out.
“I did not signal the match was at an end, nor that I was surrendering. You should never have relinquished your weapon. You know better,” he said between pants, lowering his sword, though he still held her firmly to him.
“I would not have done so in the arena.” She tilted her head to the side, peering up at him. “But I thought this was a friendly match, one to test my skills. I had no idea you were so averse to losing that you would cheat.”
Cyru
s snorted. “I did not cheat. You are simply upset that you were not as clever.”
He should have known he was in trouble when her eyes sparkled dangerously.
“Not clever you say?”
One moment he was standing upright, holding her securely against him. The next, he was flat on his back, her thighs straddling his chest. Her weight pinned him firmly to the ground and he struggled not to wince when his back clenched in protest at having been slammed into the hard earth.
“Who is the clever one now?” she demanded.
“Clever? Who knew you were so averse to losing that you would cheat?”
“I hate to lose,” she said quietly. Her eyes still sparkled with amusement, but Cyrus noted the soft defiance in her voice. “I never lose.”
“And neither do I.”
A myriad of emotions with countless meanings crossed their faces then arced between them. Respect, admiration, promises, threats. Cyrus could not be sure.
What he was certain of was the one thread of emotion that connected them, which caused her lips to part, and his breath to rake through his lungs, insistent and needy.
Desire—pure and raw.
It darkened her eyes until they were a rich, deep taupe.
He imagined his eyes were now swirling with violet, the color they always turned whenever he experienced strong emotions.
In that moment, Cyrus became aware of every single detail. The heat of her thighs against his bare torso, scorching his flesh. The warmth of her, atop his chest, with only the thin fabric of her tunica separating her from him. Her skin was not perfumed, but the scent of her was sweet, sensuous, and he drew it in, every part of him alive with her essence. Her breathing was as rough and uneven as his own and his fingers tingled, inching closer and closer to her bare thighs splayed across him.
He stilled at the sound of heavy footsteps echoing in the distance.
It was the guard making his way toward them, to retrieve Aurora. Cyrus looked quickly up at the sky. The moon was bright and brilliant. They must have been out there for more than an hour.
Aurora scrambled off of him, taking with her the soft, feminine curves of her body.
Slowly, reluctantly, Cyrus rolled over and stood to his feet.
Cyrus stared down at her, seeing the woman before him not as he’d seen her yestereve—as a burden, a chore.
When he gazed into Aurora’s eyes, he saw only a woman whose determination and passion matched his. She was a worthy opponent. He was ashamed he’d ever doubted her, underestimated her. He vowed he would never do so again.
He stuck out his arm and waited until she grasped his. He squeezed her forearm with his hand, and she did the same. It was the symbol of respect among gladiators, a testament to the oath they’d pledged to the familia gladiatoria, to the arena.
“Now that our dominus has seen you are quite capable in the arena, he shall see to it that you join this ludus,” Cyrus said, releasing her arm.
She studied him closely. “Are you still against this?” When he started at her question, she added. “How did I know?” Aurora smiled. “It was your eyes. I read them as I spoke to Claudius. You fear for me.”
“I do,” he responded truthfully. “But it is not what you believe. I do not think you unworthy at all. Yet, the defiance I glimpsed in your eyes yestereve, and then earlier, makes me worry that you are no longer suited to the life of a gladiator. And I imagine it is also the protectiveness I feel toward women because of my upbringing. Where I am from, women fight to defend their families and their lands, they should never be forced to fight for blood and sport.”
She tilted her head to the side, studying him from beneath a fan of sable lashes. Cyrus was more perceptive than she’d realized. Undoubtedly, she was no longer suited for the arena, but she would never reveal that, so instead she questioned, “And where is it that you hail from?”
The Roman guard came to a stop before them, making any further discussion quite difficult.
“It is time for you to return to your quarters,” Cyrus replied. “But if you manage to survive your first day of training within this ludus, then maybe I shall tell you.”
She groaned then, an arduous sound that he heard long after she was led away.
As he watched Aurora saunter off, her hips swaying gently, for the first time in a long time Cyrus felt the stirrings of a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Chapter Three
Aurora wanted to die.
She wanted to close her eyes, and still her breath until the arms of death claimed her. She had experienced arduous training before, so she could not say this was the worse, or the hardest, only that she’d not experienced such demands upon her body and in such ways in some time.
Her body wailed in pain, muscles she’d not felt in years ached, and joints creaked.
She slid her naked form into the warm water and closed her eyes with a contented sigh, already desiring sleep, but truly wishing for death.
She blamed Cyrus.
He was a heathen, a tyrant, a barbarian. As doctoris, he’d revealed all facets of his depraved self. With every mistake, he’d shouted at her, the end of his whip striking dangerously close to her feet.
He had shown her no mercy, no favor—but she would not have wished him to.
Most of the recruits had been there for many months and had not been treated with the deference she’d been shown by their master. Most of them were virtually unknown to Claudius. Because of Claudius’ favor, the recruits disdained her with open hostility, while the gladiators begrudgingly tolerated her, ignoring her for the most part.
That she was a skilled fighter did not matter. That she’d passed the final test and risen to the level of champion was unimportant.
She was a woman in a gladiator’s arena.
Had she been in a larger ludus, she would not have faced such obstacles. She would have trained solely with other gladiatrices, but as she was the only woman, Cyrus had no choice but to pair her with the men. Men who neither liked nor respected her. In Claudius’ ludus Aurora was not welcome—the lot of them had made that clear.
With Claudius already fawning over her, if Cyrus had done the same and shown her any special favor, he would have only made matters worse.
She sighed at that thought. Her mind was already weary, her body even more so, and continuing to dwell upon this ludus, and the men within it, only exhausted her further. So she let her mind drift away from any thoughts of the arena, save Cyrus. She recalled then that he still had not told her where he was from, but she acknowledged, she did not quite deserve it, not after her dismal day of training which she’d barely survived.
“What is that upon your back?”
She had not heard Artemisia draw near, and wished the girl hadn’t. Aurora was far too weary to engage in conversation, and certainly did not wish to discuss this matter. Still, Aurora managed to open one eye and peeked at Artemisia, her face guarded.
“A tattoo,” she said simply. If the girl was smart she would note her voice, and her cryptic words, and take them both as a hint—she was not.
“I know it is a tattoo, but what is it? What does it mean?”
“I do not know what it means,” she lied. “But as you see, it is a winged serpent.”
Aurora closed her eyes, shutting out Artemisia’s frowning face. The girl was clever enough to realize she had not received a marking upon her body of which she did not know the meaning. The girl was also smart enough to realize it would not be wise to question her further. This time she did not.
“I was with Cornelia as she dined with Claudius when word came that you are quite skilled. That you fight impressively.” Artemisia beamed, deftly changing the subject. “That is good, you know. It means you will soon enter the arena, where you are sure to find favor among the crowds.”
“Hmmm,” was Aurora’s only reply because she did not know what else she could say. She’d not come there to return to the arena. She did not care if the crowds favored her, yet
she knew her purpose there would grow more difficult if they did not.
If the crowds favored her, then so would Claudius, and if he favored her, then he would welcome her more openly, he would relax around her until he grew to trust her.
She needed his trust. His trust was key.
Aurora opened her eyes when three guards entered the bathing chambers, signaling it was time to leave and return to their quarters. The baths, which were crowded with most of the female slaves who worked within the household, began to empty as women climbed out of the pool.
Aurora started to climb out as well, but stopped when one of the guards stepped forward and said, “You may stay.”
That raised several eyebrows, but none said a word, none dared to for so many reasons.
She was the female gladiator—the gladiatrix— favored by their dominus.
It would be foolish to express their displeasure. Their worth was far less than hers promised to be.
“It is as I said,” Artemisia whispered. “The life of a gladiator within this house comes with many privileges.”
The girl winked at her, before she scurried from the room, with her tunica clinging to her wet body.
The bathing chambers were soon empty, but Aurora was not alone. One guard stood on the other side of the entryway while she continued to bathe. Aurora could not see him, but she knew he was there. His hovering presence still did not stop her.
She turned her back to the entrance and waded to the other side of the pool, as far as she could get away from the entryway so that he would not hear her.
Aurora was always on alert for anything that would aid her mission, and that included finding hidden tunnels. So with the baths empty she quickly seized the opportunity to begin her search as she slipped from the pool. She padded on bare feet to the back of the room, her gaze searching, her hands roaming over the brick and stone that made up the wall.
Claudius Norbanus was a man of healthy passions. Aurora had no doubt a direct passageway led from his chambers to those of the baths for the female slaves.
Her eyes probed carefully, looking for lines that were too straight, depressions that were too even. She was certain such a passageway was there, but Aurora did not find one, at least not quickly enough.
