The Winged Serpent (The Order of the Oath)

by Nadia Aidan

  Her back stiffened when she heard the distinct sound of metal clanking against metal. It was the guard’s armor shifting with his movements.

  She stole a glance at the entrance to find it still empty, but she did not spare another moment.

  With lightening quickness, she slipped into the pool. Pretending to bathe, Aurora’s hands barely shook, though her heart beat a pulsing, pounding rhythm in her chest. At the sound of muffled steps drawing near, Aurora peered over her shoulder, expecting to see the guard, anticipating he would tell her it was now time for her to return to her quarters.

  It was not the guard.

  Aurora frowned, her neck stiff as she bowed her head slightly. “Domina.”

  Cornelia did not acknowledge the greeting of respect as she rushed into the bathing chambers, her blue eyes shifting wildly as if she was a crazed animal.

  “My husband favors you, like he has favored no other.”

  Aurora wisely remained silent. Cornelia was jealous and mad, a deadly combination to be sure.

  “You are all he speaks of, as if you are a noble, as if somehow you are divine.” Cornelia’s eyes flashed hard and cold, like rare sapphire stones. “His slave twits I did not mind, they were brainless and without ambition.” Her gaze narrowed upon Aurora. “But you are ambitious. You desire more than glory in the arena. I can tell. It is there in your eyes, threatening to overflow.”

  It did not pass without Aurora’s notice that as Cornelia spoke, she drew ever closer. When Cornelia’s hand clenched into a fist, Aurora saw the small object within her grasp, reflecting the light, and every sense within Aurora’s body became alert.

  The tiles were slippery, making any fight a dangerous one. Even though the woman was a deranged bitch, intent upon murder, Aurora could not kill the mistress of the house. Such an act would consign her to death.

  Cornelia stopped at the edge of the pool, her eyes dark and sinister. Aurora held Cornelia’s mad gaze, her heart pounding, her breaths uneven, watching, waiting for the woman to strike at any moment.

  A commotion just beyond the entrance grabbed their attention, and Cornelia gasped.

  Whether it was truly surprise, or out of desperation that she would be caught trying to murder a slave, whatever object within her hand plunked into the water at the same time Cyrus rushed into the room, with the guard on his heels.

  His chest labored with exertion as if he’d sprinted there.

  Cyrus pinned Cornelia with a long, hard look, and while his attention was otherwise occupied, Aurora took that opportunity to slip down into the water and with her palm flat, she searched the bottom of the pool for whatever Cornelia had dropped until her hand closed around something small and made of metal.

  “I apologize for my interruption, domina, but dominus wishes to see you,” Cyrus said.

  Cornelia was not fooled by his abrupt appearance.

  “What is it about this woman that has you both so ensnared? You rush down here for what? To protect her?” Cornelia mocked. “From me? I heard you had to resort to trickery simply to best her. If you could not defeat her then why ever would you believe I was capable of doing her harm?”

  Cyrus was not fooled by her act either. His gaze was unyielding as he stood quiet along the edge of the pool, his entire body rigid. Cornelia glared between the two of them, until finally her gaze settled upon Cyrus.

  “She can have you. You’re nothing but a slave, and you’re as chaste as a monk. I imagine you would be a disappointment within the bed furs anyway.”

  Aurora thought Cornelia was done with her.

  She was wrong.

  Their gazes clashed, dark golden eyes locking with those of shimmering sapphire. “But I would have you far away from Claudius. Many have come before you, and many will come after, but none have replaced me as his wife, and none shall.”

  With that Cornelia swept from the room, but not before holding Aurora’s attention until she had no choice but to glimpse the deadly purpose burning in the depths of Cornelia’s eyes.

  The guard left the bathing room after Cornelia, to take up his post once again, leaving her alone with Cyrus. Though from where he stood, they were not afforded a great measure of privacy, which was not unusual given their status.

  Despite the lack of privacy, Aurora did appreciate that she was alone with Cyrus, and any other time she would have welcomed such fortuna.

  Cyrus was too astute not to take notice of a flash of silver in her hand, or that she refused to lift one arm from the water. And she gleaned he was far too principled to allow her to walk out of the room with a weapon upon her. With a sigh, she released the object in her hand, and using her heel, she pushed it into the nearest corner.

  If she were lucky no one would find it.

  If she were lucky it would still be there when she returned on the morrow to bathe.

  “How did you know Cornelia was here alone with me?” she asked when silence hovered between them.

  “I overheard her questioning one of the guards if the other women had been dismissed and if you were bathing alone yet. I do not believe she knew if you were by yourself or not, but I knew she meant to find out. I was detained by our dominus, which is why I was forced to race down here.”

  “You know she is mad,” Aurora said simply.

  “More crazed with jealousy than mad. In all my time here I have never seen her this way, but she is truly threatened by you.” Which made no sense, his expression said. The domina of a house threatened by a mere slave?

  She regarded him carefully. “Do you believe I am in danger?”

  “A lone female gladiator in a ludus?” His smile was faint, his voice did not hint at laughter. “You are always in danger.”

  Aurora was not particularly adept at flirting, seduction, yes, but not flirting. She reasoned seduction involved a measure of it, but such tactics she’d always employed with a purpose. She concluded as she smiled up at Cyrus, that she was flirting simply because she enjoyed doing so, which was something she’d never known until now. “And what of you? Am I in danger from you?”

  It was as if her words sparked an ember of fire deep within him because his eyes darkened to fathomless indigo pools, and his nostrils flared.

  He did not reply, instead he stooped down to retrieve her tunica and held it up, his head turned away.

  “Here, I shall escort you back to your quarters.”

  She smiled at the slight flush creeping along his neck. She’d embarrassed him, though not directly. Her question had been relatively benign. Aurora suspected his own provocative thoughts had shaken him.

  Taking the tunica in hand, she turned her back and donned the garment as soon as she stepped from the pool.

  “From the second I laid eyes upon you, I knew you were trouble,” he said when they stood face to face.

  Every muscle in her body grew rigid, the blood in her veins became liquid ice and for a moment she considered he was on to her, that maybe he’d seen the blade in the water or somehow recognized the tattoo upon her flesh, but the gentleness of his expression told her otherwise.

  “I saw the scars upon your back,” he said in answer to her questioning stare.

  “You glanced,” she teased, her voice surprisingly steady, despite the tempestuous storm in her belly.

  “But only for a second.”

  His smile was rueful and an easy, companionable silence stretched between them, tinged with amusement, until his expression grew somber. “You did not take to enslavement well.”

  “Very few do. I have seen your back. The same is true of you.”

  She had not meant to snap at him, but she could not stop herself. Aurora often forgot of her past life, she forgot for a reason.

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to pry at your expense.” He drew closer, his eyes soft. “But you have nothing to feel shame for. There is beauty in one’s strength of will.”

  Aurora closed her eyes for but a moment, his words shuddering through her, so intimate that she almost imagined his fi
ngers gently caressed her marred back. No man had ever gazed upon her scars and told her they were beautiful. None ever gave voice to their thoughts when they saw them, but she’d glimpsed the initial revulsion in many pairs of eyes.

  Her lashes fluttered open, and she lost herself in shimmering pools of blue that revealed only compassion and the barest hint of male appreciation.

  “Thank you,” she said in a quiet voice, suddenly shy before him. She averted her gaze as she righted her tunica. “And you did not pry at my expense,” she said by way of apology. “It is just that I do not wish to remember those early days.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  Cyrus uttered the words, but she did not truly think he did, which was not his fault; it was not the fault of anyone. Her horror was not unique, the scars upon her body, indelibly branded into her soul, did not make her special, did not make her suffering somehow different from the others. And there were many, many others. Brutalized first by war, then by slavery. Some masters were kind—hers had not been. She’d been used to slake the desires of men, then to amuse them in the arena, nothing about her existence as a slave had ever been kind.

  She stole a quick look at Cyrus, and immediately she returned to the present, to the life she had now. The second chance she’d been given. The oath she’d pledged and the duty she’d accepted.

  “You never did tell me where you were from.” Her eyes smiled at him, no longer shadowed by dark thoughts of the past.

  “Because you did not earn it.”

  But he told her anyway, and as he guided her to her quarters she finally understood.

  He was of Thrace.

  That explained his fierceness, his determination, why he would never accept a loss. Thracians were known for their warrior culture, their indomitable will upon the battlefield.

  He was a worthy opponent, a formidable foe, but her foremost thought was that she hoped he would not stand in her way when the time came for her to act, because she did not wish to match wits nor cross swords with Cyrus.

  She could not truly say who would be the victor if they did.

  * * * *

  Aurora arose the next day with a sense of foreboding. A fine sheen of sweat coated her skin, and every corner within her body tingled.

  It was unexplainable, this feeling, what brought it about, so as she entered the training arena with the other fighters—yet at the very end of the line, where the men had consigned her—she batted it aside, until she was able to ignore it. She decided she was simply weary from the training activities of yesterday, and her body protested such exertions, fearing the pain and exhaustion that was sure to come.

  As soon as the line of gladiators and recruits made it into the arena, they were commanded to face the balcony where Claudius could look down upon them.

  He stood there beneath the morning rays, draped in a golden tunica and white toga, with his arms spread wide.

  “Welcome my familia gladiatoria,” he boomed in a voice larger than himself, the sound resonating across the entire arena.

  Aurora knew immediately his purpose for being there, and she cringed with dread, waiting for it to come.

  “It is my honor to present to you, Aurora, the only gladiatrix of Capena.” Hearing her name she returned her attention to Claudius and the blustering speech that she’d drowned out until now. “The great champion of Aquileia,” he continued. “Soon to be our female champion of Capena. We welcome her into our ludus.”

  She winced at that, though Claudius could not see it from such a distance. He believed he bestowed upon her some great honor, and she bowed her head, although her smile was tight.

  There was no applause, at best, the announcement was met with disgruntled snorts and hushed grumbling.

  Claudius did not seem to take notice, or he simply did not care. And he did not have to.

  With his great presentation at an end, he swept back into his private chambers, leaving her there in the arena, alone. Not physically, of course, because many surrounded her, but like Cyrus, they were of the mind that women did not belong in the arena, or a ludus. Many of their reasons where wholly different from that of Cyrus’ but it did not matter. The end purpose remained the same.

  She was a stranger in their midst—unwelcome and unwanted.

  * * * *

  The naked envy and hostility which had burned in the eyes of some of the men since Claudius’ ill-timed announcement at dawn, finally boiled over just before dusk.

  Aurora was surprised it had taken even that long.

  Cyrus was wise to only pair her with gladiators whose skills matched hers, but who also understood and respected the rules of the arena. They may not like her, but they would not harm her simply because her presence offended them.

  The recruits did not share this sentiment. They were not yet gladiators and they resented her simply because she was.

  This day she’d been paired with Legalus, a stoic, golden haired gladiator from Germania, who spoke few words to everyone, not simply her, she noticed.

  Like Flavius, he was a new gladiator, and his skills were sharp, but his lack of experience was telling. He seemed to take his defeats good-naturedly, battling Aurora with the respect and discipline befitting one who’d pledged themselves to the arena, despite his many losses to her.

  Cyrus had instructed them to work on attacking while they retreated, and Aurora focused on the task, drawing upon her experience as well as that which was pure instinct.

  Legalus advanced, and she thrust her blade forward, while she stepped back. When he lunged, she did not sidestep or parry. She continued to retreat as instructed, her gladius meeting his blade crashing down upon her. It was a difficult skill to master—to strike and defend while drawing away, but it was one that was imperative.

  As Legalus continued to push her backwards, she deftly defended herself, waiting, searching for the single, fleeting moment when he would leave himself exposed. When she found it, she readied herself and sprung backwards even as she thrust out her hand to strike.

  The match should have ended with what would have been a killing blow if they’d been in the arena, but before her blade could strike its target, something swiped at her achilles, sweeping her legs out from under her. It was all she could do to brace herself, tuck her head and roll back to her feet.

  Legalus stopped immediately, his eyes wide while Aurora spun away from him, her fuming gaze searching for the coward who would do such a thing. A group of four recruits with grimy, filthy faces and tattered garments stood behind her chuckling. She knew they were recruits, for they had not yet earned the heavy bronze collar inscribed with the mark of the House of Norbanus, or the privilege of donning fresh, neat garments. Just as she knew immediately the one who’d tripped her.

  Primus.

  From her talks with Artemisia, she knew he was a Roman citizen, a plebian, who possessed little money and no land. He’d volunteered his services to Claudius in order to pay his many debts and earn some denarii. For many reasons she did not like him. He was loud and boastful with a penchant for cruelty. Aurora also did not respect one who would choose the life of a slave. She would rather toil upon the farms a poor free woman than ever give up her freedom.

  “Which one of you tripped me?” she demanded, her gaze boring into Primus. She knew she should simply ignore him and his band of followers, but she could not trust her back to these men anymore, and she refused to tolerate blatant disregard.

  Aurora could accept open disdain and being ignored, but she would never accept being pushed around and disrespected. She had earned her place in the arena, at the least, she deserved respect.

  “I said, which one of you tripped me?”

  The lot of them continued to snicker, but Primus’ vacant stare was cold, almost sinister. She shuddered at the look within his eyes, a look she’d glimpsed in others many times before.

  He was not to be trusted. The rest of the recruits were pranksters, but Primus was spiteful, he was dangerous.

  Real
izing he was too cowardly to admit what he’d done, Aurora decided to let it be and started to turn around, but at the last instance she caught a flash of movement out the corner of her eye.

  With lightning speed, she spun around to face them, her sword arm blocking the wooden gladius one of them hurled through the air at her head. The blade scraped her skin as she deflected it, the nick of pain barely noticeable.

  With her own short sword raised, and her shield in her hand she bounded through the air, Primus her sole target, for he was the only one of them without a gladius within his hand.

  What came after Aurora would barely remember. In that moment she was not Aurora, the woman who’d escaped a life of blood in the arena, a life in chains as a slave to the perversions of bloodthirsty men and their sordid lusts. In that moment she was Aurora who’d fought her way through the ranks to become champion, she was the woman who’d endured the pain of the lash more than any other for her defiance, her insolence.

  Looking at Primus and the cruelty in his eyes, she saw only the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of others who were equally cruel, equally perverse. Aurora swung her shield, striking him against the face with the full force of her strength. He crumpled to the ground, and she released her sword and shield to grasp his tunica, her other hand balling into a fist to slam into his jaw.

  She did not know how long she struck him, or how many times.

  She did not hear Cyrus calling her name in the distance.

  She did not even feel the wetness upon her cheeks.

  The only thing that stopped her was the stinging slap of the whip against her back.

  Bone chilling pain shot through her with the first strike. It could have been worse. She’d been whipped enough times to know— he could have struck her much harder.

  Aurora twisted around.

  When the next strike came, she lifted her arm, catching the end of the whip so that it curled around her wrist.

  Cyrus pulled on the whip, and she pulled back, their gazes clashing, locking.

  “Release it, Aurora.”