by Lydia Pax
“Damned fool was trying to impress his fellows by not drinking any water,” said Nyx. “But then, not the first fighter I know to ignore my advice.”
Her eyes landed meaningfully on Lucius. They were dark blue, flecked with green.
“I need something for pain,” he said.
“Of course you do.” She snapped her fingers, and Chloe attended to the novice. Nyx then placed her hands on Lucius’s shoulder. “How does that feel?”
His answer was a low grunting gasp.
“Right. And how have those exercises been working for you?”
Once upon a time, he would have lied. Now, he did not think he had the patience for it, nor the memory to return to the lie later. Besides, Nyx wouldn’t have been fooled anyway.
“I don’t do them.”
Nyx rummaged through a series of jars, compiling ingredients in one thick hand. Her palms were large and flat.
“Problems don’t solve themselves, Lucius.”
“I know that.”
“They require constant attention. Thorough adjustments. Mindfulness of your body and your habits.”
“I know that.”
She grabbed a mortar and pestle and began to mix. “And yet you persist in all of your bad habits.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I lost my first husband to wine. I understand very well. I don’t think you understand. But I know I do.”
Within a few minutes she had mixed together a small, nasty-looking sticky patch of green and red.
“Chew this for the rest of the day. Suck it against your gums, but do not swallow anything but the juice. It should ease the pain. It may make you a bit drowsy. Just keep moving and don’t sit for very long. Ask for an extra portion at meal time, if you can.”
“Thank you, Nyx.”
“It will stop working the second you imbibe wine. And if you choose to drink, it will make you throw up, violently, for about three hours.”
He had already put the chew in his mouth. Slowly, he began to slip it around with his tongue. He could probably spit it out now and still have a drink tonight, he thought.
Nyx read his intentions. “Don’t make me waste my ingredients. If you spit it out, I won’t treat you again. Nor will I treat you when the guards find you vomiting all night long.”
Little choice was left to him, but the pain in his arm was diluting already.
“Think of it as a night off from your ‘real job’,” she suggested. “Try those exercises. See how you feel in the morning. If you feel better, do it again.”
Lucius had spent his adult life entirely in training. Even so, better advice had hardly ever been spoken to him.
Chapter 19
It was dinner time. Dinner was, as ever, the same barley gruel. Gwenn’s initial love for it had faded as the weeks passed and the taste became more and more mundane. Taking in the gruel was like breathing air at this point—necessary, but not exactly fun.
Lucius sat by himself. He had an extra portion of gruel that he eyed with some reservation.
“I think I shall speak to our doctore,” she said to Sabiana, “and position his interests on our side.”
Sabiana turned and looked back at Lucius, and then at Gwenn. “I think you shall speak to him, but you’re taking me for a fool if you think that the only place you want his interests is on our side.”
Gwenn straightened. “And what does that mean?”
“You two ogle each other at every opportunity. I’m surprised you haven’t bored holes in one another’s flesh from the force of your gaze.”
“You,” said Gwenn, “are completely off-base. He trains me to fight. That is all that I care about.”
Sabiana nodded, though the mirth in her smile indicated she clearly did not believe her.
Several of the men stood up and left as one—a small clique in the collegium led by the grunt-heavy, potbellied Flamma. In another few minutes, the rest of the men would leave, and then all the women.
Sensing her opportunity sliding away, Gwenn walked over to Lucius’s table and sat across from him. Small “ooohs” went up from the women, silenced after she glared at them.
“That was a good match today,” she said.
He looked up from his gruel, eyeing her slowly up and down. There was little recognition from him that his eyes had no reins. Unconsciously, she sat up straight, offering the best possible view of her body.
“Yes,” he said. “You will have trouble as a murmillo with your recklessness. What if we placed you as a hoplamachus?”
“I will fight as murmillo.”
He sighed. “You understand you have the completely wrong temperament for that.”
“Then I will change my temperament. I will fight as murmillo.”
“You know, I can just go to the Domina and have her make you do it. And then you won’t have a choice.”
“And will you do that?”
From his face, she could see that he might. But it would be costly to him. He did not like talking to the lady of House Varinius, for whatever reason. Rumors abounded that they had slept together once.
And why did that send needles of jealousy into her heart? It was none of her business who he had slept with in the past.
“Why is this so important to you?” he asked.
She thought she had prepared her explanation. But as she spoke, great waves of emotion shook through her.
“My father fought in the arena. He was a murmillo. He was a great fighter. Many victories. They put his name on the Wall of Turmedites. They would not let me see him fight. Not even when he died. I will fight as murmillo, now.”
Lucius let the spoonful of gruel in his hand pass back down to table. He pushed the bowls away. Flies circled around the food, landing and taking off in short circuits.
By this time, the mess hall had mostly emptied. They had the place practically to themselves, outside of the cook circling around the tables and cleaning up the dishes left behind. He wiped with a heavy rag that filled the hall with soft swooshing sounds.
“What name did he fight under?”
“My father, he was a lean man. Dark hair. Very tan. He looked Greek so long as no one saw his tattoos. His were like mine, easily hidden under armor,” she pointed to her shoulders. “So they called him Leonidas.”
“Leonidas the murmillo, hmm? When did he die?”
She considered for a moment. “He fought to his death some five years ago.”
Lucius drummed his fingers, clearly lost in thought. The cook walked by and Lucius handed him the still half-full bowl of gruel he did not finish. He had a ball of something in his mouth that he sucked on, making his mouth twitch every few moments. She enjoyed looking at the shape of his face up close, in detail like this. He had a pleasant face. It was a face that made it easy to let her imagination run away from her.
She could see it, perhaps, as the first sight when she woke up in the morning. Maybe they were far away from here, in a field somewhere. On the run together, fighting at each other’s backs.
“I thought that I wanted to fight against the Titan once upon a time,” he said finally. “I was close to it, too. Very close.”
“The Titan of Rome?”
“You know him, huh?”
“I know all about the arena. I know as much as someone can know without being there. So yes, I know of the Titan. I know he is undefeated. I know he fights only to the death. I know that he refuses freedom so that he can continue to fight.”
The look he gave her was of mild surprise.
Oh yes, she thought with biting sarcasm. The girl can’t know anything about the arena. Nor can she fight in the arena, oh no. It would be as sacrilegious as a champion like him sharing his bed with a woman who wasn’t drooling after his every piece of heavily muscled, chiseled beauty.
She would not drool after him. Even if she could feel a part of her desperate to sink her teeth into his chest. She would not.
“Well. I was high in the rankings,” he said. “Und
efeated in this town for years. They wanted a big show—a big memorable game for the Saturnalia. But I got sick. Down for weeks in my bed. Fevers. Shakes. Weak limbs. Head clogged full of snot, the works.”
“You didn’t fight him.”
“No. The man who fought in my place was a veteran from the Near East. Probably better than I was, and a retarius besides. A noble champion. I hoped one day to fight him in the ring too.”
“But he didn’t win,” said Gwenn. “The Titan is undefeated.”
“That’s right. He didn’t win. He was slaughtered wholesale. The Titan toyed with him for a bit. Put on a show. But for the Titan, the sands are a butcher’s block, and he’s the butcher.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to fight him. Maybe you would have found a way to win.”
Lucius shook his head. “You’re not hearing me. Dreams…they get you nowhere in this life. Probably death is on the end of them. You have this eagerness to fight. It’s like you’re optimistic about it. Even someone like Flamma,” he pointed out to the cell blocks, “doesn’t have your attitude. He’s all about glory. Honor. I mean, me too, don’t get me wrong. But you want this because it’s all the life you’ve imagined. It’s nuts.”
“It’s what I want. I will fight as murmillo. I will win the crowd. They will know what I can do. They will want more of me.”
At this, Lucius snorted with laughter. “Come now. You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“No woman has ever fought well in the arena. It just hasn’t happened. It’s not going to. It’s not done, little flame.”
“And who’s been teaching these women? Men like you?”
“I expect so.”
They both were standing now, nose to nose. She could taste the breath from his lips.
“Men like you who write them off before they even step foot in the sands? Who don’t give them a fair shake in training? And you’re saying they don’t come out fighting well? Mystery of mysteries, Lucius.”
“It’s not like that.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. A woman can’t understand the finer aspects of training. It takes bloodlust. It takes balls.” He made a gripping motion with his hand.
“I’ve got more balls than half the men here.” She banged the table. “Train me like you train a man. I’m tired of you holding back. We can see what the others do in training. You understand we have eyes, don’t you? We see what they practice. We want the same.”
Their lips were just inches apart. The closeness was agonizing.
“And besides all that?” Lucius did not seem to be hearing her. “Besides all that, you’ve got to work with armor and weapons. Half of the girls out there can barely hold up their sword after the first hour. They’ll be cut down like flies. A woman just isn’t strong enough. Hell, the armor alone is half your weight, I bet, and—”
She punched him. Startled, Lucius shuffled a bit and then fell. He landed sitting down on the bench. Blood dripped down from his nose.
“Is that strong enough for you?
“Anybody can sucker punch someone when they’re not ready.” He held his nose and his voice was a bit nasally.
“I’m going to punch you in three seconds, then. Are you ready, gladiator? That should be plenty of time, even for you.”
It was evident he did not believe her. And so, she punched him again, this time in the forehead. Lucius wavered on the bench, shaking his head.
“Gods, you’ve got a temper.”
“Blood lust, some call it.”
Lucius laughed, but his face was grim.
For a moment, she thought she would kiss him. Or he would kiss her. And she could tell, looking at his face, that he had been thinking the same thing. If only he hadn’t been so stupid, if only he hadn’t been so bullheaded and wrong…
“Armor can be made proportionally,” said Gwenn. “Muscles grow by the day. Any woman out there would fight to defend her life, just like any person would. And I can beat anyone in that arena if you show me how. Train me.”
She held out a hand to help him up. Instead, he touched his nose and frowned at the blood there.
“I think you should get out of here,” he said, standing up without her hand, “before I tell the guards what you’ve done.”
Hopeless, she thought. A completely hopeless man.
Chapter 20
It took Lucius a few moments, but he realized he recognized the name Leonidas.
Leonidas the murmillo.
It eluded him until after Gwenn left the mess hall, until he left as well and returned to his cot to rest.
Her presence made memory difficult. There was so much pain in his memories, so much struggle, and it was easier in her presence to simply focus entirely on the moment. The wisps of hair that refused to stay out of her eyes. The curve of her lips, ever upward, even when she clearly felt rage.
Little flame. Smiling flame.
Punching him had felt like foreplay for some reason. Thoughts of holding her body tight to his, kissing her madly, crossed his mind even after she had punched him.
They may have had a difference in philosophy, but what he wanted—what he noticed more than anything—was the passion she brought to her every endeavor.
Her fervor was nigh-irresistible. Thoughts rose up in him of giving in to what she wanted. It would be easy to give in to her desire. And gods, did she ever have desire.
His heart raced with the simple conclusion of all her clear beauty and all that open, bold desire—what if it was turned on to him?
The thought was not a safe one to have while alone. Lucius may not have been able to fight in the arena as a gladiator anymore, but he still felt as virile as he ever had. Seeing those stark blue eyes burn with desire for him was something he did not think he could walk away from.
Even imagining that now would have brought his shaft up to a particular hardness and length that was hard to ignore—except for what he had just realized.
And now he knew, to a certainty, that it was an impossibility. Because if she wanted him like that, then he’d have to tell her the truth. And the truth was that she shouldn’t trust him. She shouldn’t want him as a doctore.
And she should never, ever want him.
A long time ago—five years ago, in fact—he had faced her father in the arena, and he had won.
It was a close fought battle. The sands had been hot that day, and the air thick with the smell of blood and struggle.
Only a few times had Lucius been closer to death than that day against Gwenn’s father. Leonidas had long, wiry arms. This made his reach long as well, negating some of the advantage that Lucius’s trident gave him. As a damnably good murmillo, he was patient, and chose his shots wisely.
Four times, the gladius of Leonidas raked against Lucius’s skin. He still had the scars along his back, though they had faded some. The cuts had been deep and nearly fatal. He’d needed to rest for close to a month before the wounds healed.
But Lucius drew him out of his defense, taking his time. He neutralized his arm and then took away his shield. The net could be used as a sort of a grappling hook if you caught a man off-guard. Leonidas rushed him, then, Lucius losing all his own weapons.
They scuffled on the ground, tangled together. Wrestling for their lives with a gladius between them. It ended, finally, when Lucius gained the upper-hand for just nearly two seconds and ran Leonidas’s throat against his own blade.
He’d had no choice in the matter. If he had not killed Leonidas, then Leonidas would have killed him.
It was a long, bloody battle. Lucius barely survived. Leonidas fought honorably and earned himself much glory—to the point of immortality, as Gwenn had said, on the Wall of Turmedites. He’d held great respect for the man, both before and after the battle. It was a memory that he had carried with pride, winning that fight.
And now it was one he carried with shame.
Chapter 21
Hitting Lucius had made her blood rise
. Gwenn retreated to her cell and began knocking out push-ups and crunches, unable to think clearly.
He was mad at her. That was clear. She shouldn’t have hit him. But she couldn’t help herself. It seemed like the only language he would hear, the hopeless man, and violence was as much a tongue to her as any fighter. She had little issue using it if it meant her point came across.
Still, she had shamed him. And for that, she felt regret. People did not listen to shame. They did not appreciate shame. It was no way to communicate a point. She’d have to learn. Take stock. Approach him again tomorrow, maybe apologize, and try a new tack on her road the arena. She would fight as murmillo or die trying.
And beyond all that, there was the shame she felt at the lost opportunity—those brief seconds where their lips had come so close…
She did not need to wait until the next day to speak with him. Lucius entered the women’s wing of the cell blocks once again. She overheard him greeting the others on his way. He complimented Sabiana on her progress with the trident, and suggested something she couldn’t quite hear.
The realization that he would be at her own cell soon arrived slow. She felt a need to prepare, and then felt stupid. She was in a cell. There was nothing to prepare. And yet, all the same, she wanted to impress him somehow. Show him that…what? That she was worth his attention?
Her hands went to her hair, arranging the thick red locks for a moment before she realized she had no idea what she was doing. With a cloth from her cot, she wiped down her face and chest, clearing away some of the sweat she had worked up from her impromptu workout routine.
Gods, she wished he didn’t put her head in a tizzy like this.
He walked into her cell and pushed into the corner, not quite facing her. He had a tall amphora in one hand.
“Come right in.”
