I had anticipated as much. Despite our overwhelming triumph, Messalla would not allow the day to end without offering punishment for my egregious transgression. After placing the still-too-full amphora on the floor of my cell, I followed Doctore past my reveling brothers and out into the training yard.
Wearing a festively ornamented knee-length tunic, Messalla stood in the light of the full moon, holding a braided whip coiled in one hand and a bone-barbed flagellum in the other. Torches set on either side of the marble column serving as a whipping post further illuminated the yard.
Messalla stared at me for long moments, running a slow gaze over me from head to toe and back again several times. "Do you know the reason for my summons?"
"Yes, Dominus," I said. "I disobeyed your decision to end the life of my opponent today after he gave the missio."
Messalla came closer. "Yes, but that is not all. The comfort you offered your dying friend in the arena displeased me greatly. Such an emotional display between warriors requires privacy to avoid perception of weakness. My champion shedding tears in front of thousands of spectators has tarnished the brightness of this day of days. Doctore, strip him."
I stood perfectly still, eyes straight ahead, knowing that any commentary or movement without receiving advance permission would only increase the severity of my punishment. Doctore first removed my sandals, then the padded fascia covering my legs, followed by my wide cingulum belt. Lastly, he added my subligaria to the pile of garments on the ground, leaving me naked.
Doctore shoved me between the shoulder blades with the bulbous knot at the end of his whip's handle. "Face the post and put your hands in the restraints."
I had to rise up on the balls of my feet and stretch to reach the set of iron manacles looped over a hook high up on the tall column of marble. Cursing my Sarmatian ancestors for my relative lack of stature, I slipped my hands into the iron cuffs and grabbed the two sides of the chain. The crack of the whip ripped through the air, accompanied by the sharp sting of flesh sliced down to the bone. Before I could suck in a steeling breath, a second lash laid a stripe of agony on the other side of my back. Swallowing a scream and rising to my toes, I gripped the chain harder in an effort to rebel against the pain surging through me.
Cold sweat welled up on my skin. Blood tickled my buttocks and the backs of my legs as the warm fluid slowly trickled downward. I lost count of the tandem assault administered by Doctore and Messalla, imploring the gods for the latter not to switch over to the flagellum.
But the gods, as gods were wont to do, left my prayers unheeded. The sheep bones and steel blades affixed to the multiple tails of the short flogger dug into me so deeply that Messalla had to yank them out of my flesh after each blow. Pain drove me into unconsciousness, remedied by a bucket of frigid water dumped over my head and a cloth soaked in pungent salts of ammonia held under my nose.
Messalla grabbed my hair at the nape of my neck and pulled my head up to meet his icy gaze. "That will suffice. Now, as a reminder to you of your place in this ludus, you will crawl behind me on your hands and knees like the lowly cur you are."
I slipped my hands out of the manacles and dropped to my knees onto the dirt. Doctore gathered up my garb and returned to the celebration.
"Come, dog." Messalla began a slow trek, but not toward the barrack entrance.
Four times, he walked at a slow pace around the perimeter of the training yard, stopping only occasionally to pet my hair or to scratch me under the chin like a beloved companion animal. Bile clawed its way up my gullet, burning the back of my throat, but I didn't dare show Messalla the discourtesy of vomiting my revulsion in his presence.
Finally, Messalla made his way into the barrack. With no instruction to the contrary, I continued on all fours through the dining area to the taunts and jeers of my drunken, fornicating brothers.
Messalla stopped at the entrance to my cell. I glanced across the aisle, an additional wave of humiliation coursing through my veins at the sight of the now-alert lion staring at me.
"I am a man of my word," Messalla said. "Therefore, I will not lock your cell, despite my current level of ire and my wish to witness your further suffering for today's misdeeds. You are still my champion, and I will not renege on past promises. There will be no training for you tomorrow, however, and you will send for Medicus if you feel your wounds require his aid. Enjoy your wine, Noctua Audax. Do not displease me again."
7 September, 117
Morning dawned with a sunbeam wrenching me from a hard-won and uncomfortable sleep. Atlas the lion stirred in its cell, a new wound encrusted with blood and flies adorning its lower chest where Naevius's spear tip had grazed it. Lolling its head upside-down, Atlas let out a pitiful yowl as it looked toward me, its once-bright but savage eyes now harboring an emotion akin to sorrow. I could have understood it, had the lion been human. I had seen the fire snuffed out of many a man after their first time in the arena, but that same expression exhibited by an animal confused and disturbed me.
Once again locked in their cells, my brothers were sleeping soundly, all of them seemingly dead to the world from hours of copulation, uncomfortable quantities of rich foods, and copious volumes of victory wine. I opened the unlocked door of my tiny abode and stepped into the aisle to take a much-needed piss. Instead of aiming at my usual spot against the wall near the cell of Flavius—a gladiator with no remaining sense of smell—I chose the location in the middle of the aisle where the lion had previously streamed its disdain for our mutual enslaver.
Atlas rolled to an upright position to watch me, as if curious, and then emitted a sharp bark of pain as its front paws made contact with the dirt. It curled the left paw inward toward its chest. Atlas had evidently sustained another wound of Naevius's doing. Before I could investigate, the snap of Doctore Rutilius's whip echoed through the barrack.
"Attend!" Doctore shouted. "Gladiators to the training yard. Conditioning exercises commence in five minutes."
As the men filed out of the barrack, Doctore turned in the opposite direction and came to me. "Turn around so I may see the damage."
I put my back to him as ordered, taking care not to gasp or flinch while he ran a hand across my ravaged flesh. "Dominus is wise in assuming you would bear trauma in silence rather than seek healing aid. You will summon Medicus to treat your wounds after the noon meal, or you will suffer additional punishment for prideful stubbornness. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Doctore," I said. "Apologies."
I breathed a sigh of relief upon Doctore's departure. Solitude from other men would serve me well today, and so I set my attention on the lion. Irrational, I knew, but I felt compelled to let it know I considered it blameless for the death of my dearest brother. After several hearty and fortifying gulps of wine to hold searing pain at bay, I slowly exited my cell.
Glistening black lips curled back upon my approach to show intimidating fangs in quiet warning for me to keep my distance. Atlas didn't move from where it lay and, with closer inspection, I determined why. The paw it had sheltered appeared swollen and tender, the sand beneath it bloody. Meeting my gaze, Atlas turned the paw pad-side up to show me the wound, shocking me to my core with its intelligent intent.
Settling my anxiousness with deep breathing, I leaned forward to examine the paw more closely. A large splinter of wood had pierced the flesh at the juncture of two thick toes.
"It seems you and I both had a bad time of it yesterday." I walked on my knees to move closer to the bars separating us, keeping my movements slow, my gaze riveted on Atlas's eyes. "I forgive you for killing my friend. You hadn't a choice in the matter, any more than Naevius had a choice. You and I now have something in common, Atlas. We are both champions of self-preservation."
Eyes possessing far too much emotion and thoughtfulness for a beast gazed back at me, as if Atlas were considering my words. Its threatening maw closed, and it glanced toward the doorway where combat sounds poured in from the training yard. When its attention returned t
o me, it reached the injured paw out through the bars, bloodied pad up—not in a threatening manner, but as if beseeching me to offer aid.
I had performed more foolishly impulsive acts, to be sure, but none as likely to result in my loss of a limb. But I could detect in a man's eyes if he truly wished me harm or if he didn't, and I was receiving the same manner of nonaggressive cues from the lion: no pinprick pupils, no raised hackles, no taut muscles.
Deciding to take a chance, I reached out slowly with my left hand, keeping my head at a level lower than the lion's to signify my acquiescence to its inherent dominance.
"Easy, boy." I turned my palm up and slid my hand underneath its injured paw, between soft fur and the sandy ground, holding my breath.
To my continued amazement, Atlas stayed still except for the slow blinking of its eyes and a shuddering breath. Atlas glanced down at my hand cradling its paw and then up at my eyes again, silently giving me consent to continue.
"I will do my best not to hurt you, Atlas, but please take pity on me should I fail." My heart hammered a ramming-speed cadence akin to the banging truncheons of a rowers' timekeeper in a Roman galley. Without further delay, I gripped the exposed end of the jagged splinter with my other hand and started pulling.
Atlas roared and dug the claws of its other paw into the ground. It did nothing to strike out against me, only jerking back once the splinter came free, and left me clenching a shard of wood the length and breadth of my longest finger. Atlas limped to the rear of the cell and began licking the wound. After a few minutes, Atlas hobbled back to the center of the cell and hunched up in apparent pain. Its spine suddenly bowed, its hind legs splaying wide apart. Tawny fur receded and the dark mane disappeared.
I blinked my astounded eyes hard, shaking my head in disbelief. Atlas had transformed into a beautiful man with brown skin and very little in the way of body hair. The man's right shoulder bore the same dark scar the lion had, and the wound on the lower chest caused by Naevius's spear had already begun to scab over. Human eyes with round pupils gazed at me, with eerie irises the same golden hue as those belonging to the lion.
How could that be possible? Reflexively, I backed away from the cell bars, wishing I had a weapon within reach. "What kind of demon are you?"
"The only demons present are those who put us both here, friend." Atlas flexed his human hand, which still manifested the wound left from the splinter, and he winced. "Thank you for helping me. I cannot shift from one form to another with a foreign body embedded in my flesh."
I retreated into my cell, half-wishing my door possessed a lock. "What do you call yourself?"
"I have no name other than the one your master gave me." Atlas settled cross-legged on the ground, close to the bars. "My people know me by my scent, my gait, my vocalizations, and my deeds. Those attributes of an individual are much more telling and unique than a made-up word. I would recognize you by your scent alone, even if you hid amongst a thousand men. You smell of rage, remorse, and too much wine."
The disconcerting calm of Atlas's quiet presence had a soothing effect on me. I stepped out of my cell and seated myself on the ground in front of him, nevertheless careful to stay beyond his reach. If only I could've averted my eyes. He was almost too perfect to gaze upon, in a masculine way perhaps only men like me could fully appreciate and understand. The sensual coil of alert, sinewy muscles. Dark skin, smooth and flawless except where scarred by two victorious battles. Those stunning eyes, supernaturally golden and locked onto my gaze with intent that should've frightened me but emboldened me instead. That gorgeous cock, hanging lazy and thick between his legs, balls heavy with unspent seed.
A soft growl from him pulled me from my appreciative reverie, and I shifted the position of my legs to hide the embarrassing result with my sweaty thighs.
"It should have been me in the arena with you yesterday," I said. "However, our master feared your death would have little impact on the spectators if too immediate."
Atlas nodded. "I understand. I am sorry for the passing of your friend. His heart raced like a gazelle's in full flight as we battled, and I could tell he held no lust for the fight. Neither do I." Silence filled the space between us for a long moment until he spoke again. "I don't wish to kill you, yet the ache of sorrow fills my chest because I must—unless we work together against our common foe. As the enemy of my enemy, you could be my friend."
"Messalla's hubris far outsizes his paltry cock," I said. "He will not permit the Champion of Rusellae to fall to a lion. I know how the accursed man thinks. He will have you fed on the morning of our match, but not a meal sufficient to make you lazy or sluggish. However, they will taint the meat with just enough poppy milk to retard your reflexes slightly. The drunken, blood-lusting crowd will not notice that the king of beasts lags ever so slightly in its attacks, but the advantage will be enough for me to best you."
The noise of gladiatorial training went silent in the yard, so I held up a hand to delay any response from Atlas. Only once the sounds of men growling and grunting resumed as wooden swords clashed with steel shields did I turn back to him, moving closer to the bars. With Naevius now gone, I no longer had anything important to lose. Trust between me and this reluctant, remarkable adversary had to start somewhere.
I made the first gesture toward a truce and gripped one of the vertical bars, putting my vulnerable throat and belly in easy reach of him. "The only thing I have left is my honor, and I find no honor in knowingly killing an impaired combatant. I don't understand what kind of creature you are, Atlas, but I do believe you when you say you don't wish me harm. I am agreeable to conspiring with you."
Atlas extended the reach of his neck and brought his nose to my jaw through the bars. He inhaled deeply with parted lips in the way I'd seen him do as a lion, and his warm breath washed over my throat as he spoke. "On the morning of our match, I will not eat the offered meat, but will instead toss it over to you. Bury it in the dirt floor of your cell. They won't think to look there for evidence that I've not consumed the tainted flesh." He sniffed at me again and then sat back. "They call you Noctua Audax. Is that a name given to you by your own people, or a name thrust upon you by Messalla?"
"Messalla called me Noctua shortly after my arrival at the ludus, because I reminded him of a little owl: small in stature compared to other gladiators, high in intellect, solitary in nature, and calmly insightful in the study of my prey." I snorted a self-deprecating laugh. "The people of Rusellae then gave me the additional name of Audax. They apparently perceive my fighting style as bold, daring, and courageous, but of a highly reckless nature."
Atlas wrinkled his nose. "An owl would have flown away from this place unless his wings were clipped, and then he would have died from a broken soul from having been held captive. You, my friend, are not an owl—you are a mouse."
I laughed. "I have killed greater men for lesser insults."
Atlas held his hands up at his sides in a sign of surrender. "I mean no offense. Mice live underfoot of their predators without fear, just as you live underneath Messalla's villa. Quiet and compliant on the outside, mice are tenacious in pursuit of goals, and they are stubbornly independent and self-reliant. Their canny minds have long since learned that the only free cheese is found in a vermin trap, and they wouldn't dream of depending on others for support. Which makes me wonder, Mouse. Why are you so willing to accept aid from someone with whom you are barely acquainted?"
"My only other choice for freedom is to put faith in a man who tore me from my people, enslaved me, and had my dearest friend killed before my eyes." I reached between two of the cell bars to grip my right hand around the muscled girth of Atlas's right forearm, thankful when he returned the gesture. "I accept your aid and acknowledge that we have a common enemy who must be destroyed. Is your gift of transformation available at your discretion?"
"It is indeed in my control, although this human form is nearly foreign to me, as I have spent so little time in it." Atlas sighed hard. He suddenly seeme
d the personification of his human-given namesake, a Titan bearing the weight of the universe on his shoulders. "I was captured only weeks ago, making this my first time in service to a master. You, Noctua Audax, are the first human to learn of my secret. Now, I need you to share with me the mysteries of the arena, so we can make plans to leave this forsaken place."
Another silence came from outside, followed by the crack of a whip and shouts from Doctore. "Meal break! Thirty minutes and not a second longer!"
"You need to become a lion again," I whispered to Atlas.
Golden eyes flashed toward the light spilling in from the training yard, and Atlas withdrew his arm through the bars. "If others speak to you of me, you must act eager for the kill. I will behave aggressively toward you whenever you pass by my cell, but I swear I will never let claw touch skin."
Atlas moved to the center of his cell and dropped down onto his hands and knees. His transformation back to the Barbary lion occurred so rapidly that a well-timed blink of my eyes would have missed it. Had I not been so confident of my sane state of mind and the health of my body, I might've considered myself afflicted with hallucinations born of a great fever. My cool skin, my sharp eyesight, and my clearly rational thoughts assured me that I was neither sick nor mad.
I'd never embraced idle superstitions or believed in the unheeding cruelty of absentee gods. But today I'd witnessed a lion turn into a man and back into a lion, both with my own eyes. In that, if nothing else, I believed.
14 September, 117
The next two weeks proved busy but uneventful. I trained harder than ever before, and I spent ample time appealing to Messalla's vanity by repeatedly stressing that my greatest honor to date would come in the form of vanquishing the lion. Atlas had behaved so convincingly aggressive toward me from across the aisle that I began to second-guess my involvement with him. After his first time transforming in my presence, we'd had only one other brief opportunity to talk, and that had been scarcely long enough for us to outline our plan of attack.
Fairytales Slashed: Volume 8 Page 5
