by Nadia Aidan
But when the horses careened out of control and at the last minute veered off, trampling him, Cyrus reasoned he would never move again.
The crowd gave a flurry of cheers.
More blood. They demanded. More death.
Though one chariot was without its archer, it was still dangerous. The horses could crush her easily, and the drivers seemed intent upon doing just that.
Aurora moved with a fluid grace this time, her every motion skilled, precise, strategic.
She inserted herself purposely between the paths of the two chariots. Spooked, the horses would not be so foolish as to collide, so at the last moment, they lurched in opposite directions. The resounding crash sent the remaining archer soaring through the air.
He tumbled to the ground with a loud thump, and Aurora was there. She struck him down, her blade spearing his chest. Others would think her bloodthirsty, savage even. But despite the distance between them, Cyrus could see her soul within her eyes. She winced, and moisture gathered behind her lids.
Cyrus began to relax—somewhat. Two drivers remained. Her odds were steadily improving.
Aurora had only a few moments before one or both of the drivers left their chariot and came after her. Cyrus heartbeat quickened, and he saw it in her expression, the moment she changed tactics.
Reaching for the discarded bow and a handful of arrows, she armed the weapon and let loose a flurry of arrows—one coming after the other. She struck one driver in the back, and he crumpled to the floor of the chariot before being thrown to the ground.
The other driver she missed entirely, and he was quick to realize that if he did not leave the chariot she would send another hail of arrows.
Tugging on the reigns, he slowed the chariot until he was able to hop out.
Whether a criminal sentenced to death, or a decorated gladiator, every person who set foot within the arena was armed with a weapon. Sometimes it was a crude one, sometimes it was made of wood, but the laws of the arena demanded everyone be allowed to fight, to defend themselves, in some manner.
The rider had been furnished with a blade, and he unsheathed it as he neared Aurora, while she stooped down to grasp hers in hand, casting the bow aside.
Cyrus’ spirits soared. Aurora was more skilled than anyone he’d ever known when it came to a fight with the blade. A one-on-one battle, and she was certain of victory. Cyrus believed this until the battle began, but then he watched the woman before him as if he’d never seen her before.
The Aurora he knew fought with her heart, her entire soul.
This one was a shell of herself, empty and hollow. Her movements were stilted and slow as if she’d been poisoned or wounded. He knew it was neither. When he caught a glimpse of her face, the dread that had clawed its way inside his gut at the beginning of the match, returned once again, this time more insistent than before.
She’d told him she was fine.
She’d assured him she’d quieted the demons that still plagued her.
She’d lied.
Aurora was frozen, locked within the shadows of her past. She was a ghost of herself, her sword meeting that of the one across from her. She fought him half-heartedly, barely missing the edge of his blade with each strike.
It was his eyes.
Liquid brown and ferocious, yet still so full of fear, so full of life.
She swallowed the lump within her throat before it could choke her.
Her belly churned, and she gasped for air, the nausea making her lightheaded and weak.
He was young, her opponent. He was barely Artemisia’s age. He fought for his life, she knew that much by the way in which he slashed his sword down upon hers with such intensity. The boy was desperate to survive, Aurora was not.
“What are you doing? Fight Aurora.”
Cyrus? He was shouting at her. He was angry. No. Furious.
He wanted her to fight, but she could not, not when she was desperate to know this boy’s age. How old was he? How young?
She asked him.
His eyes widened then narrowed. He did not answer her as he attacked her with relentless force. She did not even try to fight back, she simply defended herself until she could do so no longer.
“Ah—roar—rah! Fight baaaack!”
Cyrus was yelling in earnest now.
She looked over at him. He didn’t know that she could see him through the grate. His eyes were terrified, and he began shaking his head.
She returned her attention to her opponent but it was already too late. Aurora barely managed to avoid being sliced open, from shoulder to hip. She ducked then rolled, but the boy’s foot caught her before she could jump back to her feet.
Her ribs yielded beneath the heavy, crushing weight of the blow.
She screamed, pain exploding in her side. Her sword slipped from her fingers as she rolled over onto her back.
Staring up into eyes so like her own, and yet, so different—she knew she was going to die.
The crowd chanted all around her, the din of their voices drowning out every other sound—except that of Cyrus’ voice.
He shouted her name as if he was crazed, and she turned her head, her gaze searching for him.
She smiled. His face would be the last thing she saw before she died.
“Get up, Aurora,” he shouted, frantic. “Get—out—of—the—way!”
Get out of the way? She was trapped beneath her opponent’s foot, and he now held his sword above his head. At any moment he would slash her throat.
He didn’t. When instead his eyes widened with fear, she looked in the direction of his gaze.
Now that she was no longer under the spell of the boy’s youthful eyes, she seemed to emerge from her trance. Grasping his foot, she twisted hard until his ankle snapped and he was no longer crushing her chest with his weight.
She could not see entirely, but she could hear, she could feel—the steady, pounding of horses hooves. She rolled away from the sound that was soon followed by a blood curdling scream.
Aurora flinched as the chilling sound ricocheted through her. As with every death within the arena, she would remember this moment, the boy who’d almost taken her life before he’d been trampled beneath horses’ hooves.
She jumped to her feet, getting her first glimpse of the carnage before her. Four bodies littered the arena, their blood pooling atop the sand, paying tribute to the sacrifice of their lives.
Aurora’s belly reeled, but she stood tall. She’d seen death too many times, she’d stared it in the face so many more, and she’d brought about countless deaths by her hand alone. Death did not sicken her—it was the innocence of these boys who’d been far too young to be sent to their deaths in the arena.
She spat upon the sand, though very few would have seen it. It was an act of defiance—it spoke of her derision for the match, as if to say such a bout was beneath her. It was an insult to the editor of the games. When Claudius’ eyes darkened she knew her gesture had been witnessed by at least one—the one she’d intended.
When jeers and boos erupted from the crowd, she knew others had seen it as well.
The gates opened and several young slaves entered the arena to retrieve the horses, while the mob chanted louder all around her.
She had not won the bout fairly—more luck than any skill she possessed had earned her victory. Claudius was well aware of this, Aurora was too. Her offensive gesture did not help matters.
And the crowd was split.
Parco suus!
Spare her.
Iugula!
Kill her.
Claudius lifted his hand so that his thumb was horizontal to the ground. His eyes were cold.
The blood in her veins thickened, slowly meandering through her frozen body.
He would order her execution. Another gladiator would enter the arena and slaughter her. She could see it within his eyes. His hand hovered in the air, but when he would have turned it thumb down, Cornelia leaned over to whisper something within Balbus Vibiu
s’ ear and a moment later the senator shot to his feet.
The crowd seemed to relish the drama unfolding before them.
“Parco suus!” he cried. “Spare the only female gladiator of Capena.”
The crowd was fickle, as Aurora well knew.
A chorus of demands for Aurora to be spared rose up from the mob until it thundered all around her. The senator was beloved by the people, these games were in his honor, to welcome him publicly back to Capena. Claudius was furious, but he had no choice but to obey.
His thumb reached for the sky.
Aurora could breathe once again, the furor of the people drowning out the rapid pounding of her heart within her breast.
* * * *
The crack of a palm striking flesh shattered the silence in the room.
Aurora’s head swiveled so violently from the strike against her face that tears almost sprung to her eyes.
“How dare you spit upon the arena sand and insult me as you did after the favor I have shown you, after all the accolades I have bestowed upon you.”
Claudius rage was so potent it burned through her, singing her blood. Aurora held still, her mouth silent though she longed to hurl at him that he’d shown her little favor by pitting her against two charioteers and two archers when she had no armor and just a sword and shield.
And whatever accolades he’d heaped upon her, well, she’d never wanted those from the beginning. His praise had incited her fight with Primus, earning her the bite of the lash from Cyrus, something she had not felt in many years.
“I should cast you into the fields as my wife once suggested, but she is capricious and has changed her mind. She demands you be sent to do hard labor within the kitchen until you learn to appreciate my favor and the honor that comes with being a gladiator within the House of Norbanus.”
He waved his hand as if she was less than a fly.
“Get her out of my sight.”
Two guards came to stand beside her and seized each of her arms. She was unceremoniously dragged from the triclinieum where Claudius dined. Aurora expected to be thrown into her quarters and locked away until she was to begin her duties within the kitchen on the morrow. Thus, when Petricles met her at the entrance to the slave quarters, she looked at him curiously, but thought nothing of it.
“I will escort her to her quarters,” said Petricles to the guards who still held her firmly. “You may return to your posts.”
The soldiers simply nodded, thrusting her toward Petricles. She entered the slave quarters with Petricles at her side, her curiosity growing when he passed the turn that would lead to her chambers.
“Petricles?”
As soon as she questioned him, they came to a halt before a door similar to the one at the entrance to her own quarters. It swung open, and Aurora’s eyes rounded in surprise when Cyrus stepped through the doorway.
“Thank you, Petricles,” Cyrus said, holding out his hand. He dropped four shiny coins of silver into Petricles’ palm.
“Be quick and quiet about your purpose. Now that Claudius no longer favors her, she must be within her quarters by curfew. This cannot happen again, for if she is caught…I only did this as a special favor, but just this once.”
Cyrus nodded in gratitude because he understood well the punishment he and Aurora, even Pericles would suffer if Claudius learned she’d been within his quarters.
Aurora was not sensitive to crudeness, but quick and quiet? Pericles’ words still echoed within her mind and her cheeks flamed hot. Curfew was in an hour, leaving them little time to see to their purposes, she thought furiously.
“I am not a whore to be summoned to your bed,” she fumed as soon as she was inside Cyrus’ quarters and the door was closed shut behind her.
His chambers were much like her own, except they were larger, and he did not have to share his space. With those exceptions, the room was nearly identical—well-worn pallet in the corner and dark, gray walls made of mud and stone.
“That is not why I wished to see you.” Cyrus frowned. “You are here because of what happened this day. I wanted to assure myself you were well.”
Aurora’s gaze dipped to her feet in embarrassment.
She’d spoken out of turn. It only made sense that he would wish to speak with her. She’d neither seen him, nor talked to him since this time the night before—and him shouting at her during her fight did not count.
Cyrus lifted her chin with his finger, forcing her attention to his face.
She closed her eyes then opened them on a pained sigh. “I froze,” was all she said after a terse silence engulfed them.
His eyes narrowed. “I know you froze, Aurora. I did not bribe Petricles to bring you here to state the obvious.” His expression was gentle, his voice equally soft when he spoke again. “I want to know why. It was as if you were in a trance.”
He held firm when she would have pulled out of his grasp.
“You were almost killed today. And then when it became clear the gods had spared you, you spit upon the sand and insult Claudius. He almost ordered your death because of it.
“What I saw within your eyes today frightened me, Aurora. When you fought, you were not yourself, it was as if you were a ghost, but then when you stood before Claudius you were so angry I could feel the rage pouring off of you.”
He cupped her cheek, his eyes desperate. “Please. Tell me what happened so that I may help you. If it is within my power, I shall. Claudius will fight you again. Your favor among the gods will hold for only so long. If you do what you did this day, you will die within that arena, upon the very sand you scorn.”
Cyrus’ demands overwhelmed her, and Aurora felt as if she was suffocating, the air blistering hot through her lungs, searing her from the inside out. She could not breathe. She gasped.
“Aurora—”
“Stop it!” she screamed. She shrank away from him until she could breathe once again, until the air was light and crisp within her chest.
So many nights she’d been haunted by this. So many days she’d longed to die because of what she’d done.
A chill seeped into Aurora’s back and she realized she’d slipped to the floor, her back against the cold wall.
She had not spoken a word to another of what had happened the last time she’d entered the arena, the last time she’d fought. No one had pressed her, not even Olympia. And now, now…she glared up at him.
It was as if she was drowning, and Cyrus was the one holding her beneath the water’s surface.
“Why can you not let it be? Why must you know every secret that beats inside my heart?”
“Because I care about you. Because it hurts you. Because I care too much for you to let anything or anyone hurt you ever again.” As he spoke he crossed the room to join her on the floor. He reached out to graze his fingers across her cheek. His touch was so soft, so tender, but his eyes, followed by his gentle words crumbled the last of her defenses. “I cannot stand to see you in such pain, and I care too much for you not to do everything within my power to take your pain away.”
How long had it been since she’d cried? Truly cried?
She’d not cried on the day she’d stood within the doorway of her father’s home and watched coins exchange hands, only to realize later she’d just been sold by her parents to a man who would take her innocence so brutally, and with it, a piece of her soul—a part of herself she would never be able to reclaim.
She’d not cried when she’d been forced into the arena by her second dominus, then forced to kill until she was numb. She’d not cried as she’d existed within the bleakest of all existences owned by a man who used her for his perversions, which oscillated only between lust and the thirst for blood.
She’d not cried that day in the arena many years ago when everything had changed for her, but she cried this day, because of this man, because of Cyrus, who demanded she bare her soul to him so that he might heal it.
Aurora sobbed into her hands, quiet, still cries as Cyrus held her
to him. He held her until she was spent, and when she pulled away he did not judge her, not with his eyes, nor with his lips.
“I killed a young boy,” she blurted out, not truly of her own will. It seemed to have sprung from her as if another being had taken possession of her. “Not today, although he was young as well, but the last time I was in the arena, I faced a young man sentenced to death. He was barely of fourteen and he was terrified.”
She stopped, but Cyrus held her tighter, pouring his strength into her. He would not let her slip away to that place where she locked herself away from him, from the pain of the past.
“What happened?”
Her sharp intake of breath was the only sound to be heard before she began again.
“Aquileia is a bloodthirsty and savage place, and its people are cruel. Many of the slaves who end up in the arena are Carthaginian and the Romans with their feelings of superiority and in their lust for blood love to watch their enemies slaughtered in droves before them. That I was of Carthage, that I was a gladiatrix, that I was the champion, only incited the fervor of the crowds. I’d grown so numb to slaughtering my own that I could do it almost without feeling.
“That was, until later, when it was all over, and I was once again alone in my chambers. I was cold within the arena, but later I felt it all, everything. The pain was so unending that I truly did not believe I would ever escape it.” She glanced at Cyrus, and it was his earnest expression that allowed her to continue when she would have stopped.
“The boy I killed had been caught stealing.” The anger she always felt when she recounted the story in the deepest regions of her consciousness swamped her again, igniting her fury.
“He stole because he was starving. Up until the moment he entered the arena, I could kill without truly seeing who I fought, but not him. I looked into his eyes, and I could taste his fear. I could not do it. I would not.”
The brush of callused fingertips against her chin drew her gaze to Cyrus’ face. For the briefest of moment liquid brown eyes swam before her face, soft, gentle eyes, full of fear and terror.
Once again, she felt a cool wetness against her cheeks.
