Home Together

Avery clapped Dael on the shoulder as he stepped back into the cell once Darius's lanistas had stripped him of his armor and weapons.

"Sounds like you put on quite the show out there."

Dael swallowed hard. "I want to survive."

"As do I." Avery smiled grimly. "I'm challenging the Lion."

"Return with a heartbeat and I'll handle the rest," Dael said.

"We'll get home together," Avery promised.

Dael nodded. If they had any home left. He remembered what Angelus had said. Was his mother even alive?

Darius banged on the bars of the cell. "Adder! Stop dreaming. You've got visitors."

Dael spun around.

One Step Closer to Freedom

Dael stood on the sands and felt blood run down his fingertips. He watched The Spaniard and The Hebrew finish each other off. A double kill was entertaining, but it cut down on the competition a little too quickly.

The Mace spun around, spiked club held high, and roared.

Dael wasn't much one for animalistic tendencies. He'd watched The Mace, knew his rhythm. "You want to dance? Let's dance."

When he closed his eyes, he was dancing with Flavia through the rolling fields outside Rome.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing over The Mace, one step closer to freedom.

Sporting

Between Avery and Flavia, a fight was like a dance - a rhythm and counterpoint that was step and retreat, strike and counterstrike, block and parry, thrust and twist, jab and slash, and - kick. Flavia had taught him to fight with a sword, but Avery had taught him to fight unarmed.

A sweeping kick to the knee brought the Black Demon down. Dael thrust the gladius through his chest and imagined he was the soldier who'd taken Flavia away. They'd danced long enough. On to the next man.

Dael was sporting. He'd wait till The Mace was done dispatching The Bear.

Not Going to Die

Dael lined up with the other gladiators, faced with the imperial box, and lied.

Ave Caesar. Morituri te salutant.

Hail Caesar. We who are about to die salute you.

I'm not going to die.

Caesar gave the signal, and the six of them squared off, three pairs. Dael's first opponent was the Black Demon, captured from Africa and fierce, fast, but he'd injured his left knee in his left bout. As he was only a minimally valuable gladiator, chances were his owner hadn't let him fully heal.

Dael was going to take that chance.

Time to put on a survival show.

Putting on a Show

The first time Dael stepped into the Colosseum as The Adder, he wished he was barefoot so he could feel the sand and the earth beneath, the blue energy that pulsed deep in its veins. Instead, he felt the ground shake from the crowd's roars. The other gladiators had equally pretentious names like The Bear and The Mace. Their owners were hoping they would perform well, gain favor with the crowd.

"Remember," Avery had said, checking the bindings on Dael's armor. "It's not just about winning. It's about putting on a show. The show is what allows you to survive."

How to Live

Being a gladiator was disorienting after being a farmhand and a house slave. Other slaves roused him and Avery and the others every morning, brought him food and bathed him once a week. Dael quite didn't feel like a slave, but he wasn't free; he slept chained to a wall in a cell. Instead, he spent all day drilling - hand-to-hand, gladius, spear and shield, trident and net. Avery directed Dael and the others. And he stood beside them beneath the Colosseum as they watched their fellow gladiators fight an die, and he told them, when it was their turn in the arena, how to live.

Home

Dael and the rest of the slaves were led back to Darius's house in chains, Dael with Avery and the other fighters, a separate line for the new slaves who had yet to be culled.

"What happened in the arena?" Avery asked, voice low.

"I don't know." Dael could still taste the blood that had spattered across his face mid-battle.

"But you survived. That's what matters. Now we train you." Avery smiled. "And you keep me alive."

"We keep each other alive." But, Dael wondered, why?

"And then we go home."

Dael closed his eyes. Home was Flavia.

Train Him

It was a ridiculous name. Dael wanted, irrationally, to laugh. But he couldn't laugh, because he was surrounded by dead bodies. Bodies he'd struck down. But the crowds were watching as Darius crossed the sands, as he grabbed Dael's wrist and hoisted his hand high. Darius dragged Dael back to the cell, the crowd chanting its adoration for The Adder in their wake. Someone took the gladius from him. As he passed the other cells, men called out to him, shouting names, questions.

Darius opened the gate and gestured for Dael to enter.

Avery looked relieved.

Darius said, "Train him."

The Adder

To the day he died, Dael wouldn't remember what happened next.  All he remembered was bringing his gladius up to block, and then he was standing on a damp patch of sand, blood dripping from his blade while the crowd drowned him with its damning approval. A man, purple-robed, stood on a stone balcony and looked down at him, pleased.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Whatever you want it to be," Dael said. His real name belonged to Flavia - and himself.

Darius stepped out of the shadows, past the guards who'd stopped the other men from fleeing. "Excellency, this is...The Adder."

Won't Die a Slave

Thousands of people leaned out of the stands to peer at the men scattered across the sand, dazed and staring helplessly at their weapons.

A voice boomed across the arena. Dael scrambled to his feet, gladius in hand, searching for the man who told the crowd only one would survive. The crowd roared its approval. Dael's heart pounded. He gripped the gladius tight, comforted by its familiar weight. For one moment, he remembered Flavia's hand on him, guiding him. And then the nearest man lunged.

Avery's words came back to him.

Do whatever you have to.

I won't die a slave.

Whatever You Have To

Terror blossomed in Avery's eyes. The men shuffled, and hands closed around Dael's shoulders. Someone wrenched him out of the cell. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another boy writhing as he was dragged into the dirt-packed hallway. It was lined with cells full of other sallow-faced men cringing beneath the weight of the crowd's roars spilling from above. 

Avery threw himself against the bars as Darius slammed the gate. "Survive! Do whatever you have to!"

One of the men thrust a gladius into Dael's hands and shoved. Dael fell to his knees in hot sand.

An Accord

"Tell you what," Avery said quietly. "You help me stay alive, and I'll train you up."

 Dael glanced at the other men slumped against the bars. Some had defeat in their eyes, others anger. "I won't die a slave."

 Avery nodded. "Good. It's an accord." He extended a hand and pulled Dael into a brief embrace. "Now, you need to get healed up. Then you'll fight."

 Something slammed against the bars.

 Dael spun around, fists up to guard. Darius dragged a club against the bars, laughed.

"Next up, fresh meat." He grinned at Dael. "A little blood in the water to get the crowd going."

Cull Each Other

"How long have you been here?" Dael asked.

Avery's expression was grim. "Since the beginning."

Dael had been in Angelus's household for almost a year. "You must be a formidable warrior, to have survived this long." Would Dael have to fight him? He had learned some from Flavia, but surely not enough.

"If we win enough fights, we can buy our freedom," Avery said.  "Darius'll throw you into the ring once the title fights are finished. Fresh ones get to cull each other. Survivors are trained up." He raised an eyebrow.  "But then you've got better chances of surviving than most, don't you?"

Fight, Die

Dael had heard of them only in passing, but then he looked around at the other men crowded into the cell with him, at their scarred limbs, dirty weapons and armor, and he knew. He heard the roar of the crowds outside again, the way it rose sharply and then fell, and he saw the others look away from each other, bow their heads, mouths tight and eyes bleak. A man had just died out there. A man for the entertainment of the crowd. That’s why the scarred man had looked so delighted at Dael’s willingness to fight. To die.

Prison of Warriors

Dael’s world turned white, then black.

When it resembled a world again, he was lying on his back, head throbbing, and staring up at Avery.

“Avery!” He sat bolt upright, and then immediately rolled onto his side and was ill.

“I was about to say you shouldn’t sit up,” Avery said, and patted Dael’s back gingerly.

Once Dael’s stomach stopped heaving, he managed to take a deep breath and try to speak. “Where am I?”

“In Darius’ prison of warriors,” Avery said dryly.

Prison of warriors. That made no sense.

Then Dael heard the roar of a crowd.

“We’re gladiators.”

Dodge, Fail

The woman, who had been positively gleeful at the prospect of owning Dael, suddenly looked less than enthusiastic about owning a boy with a black eye and blood dripping from his nose and mouth.

The old scarred man, on the other hand, looked delighted. He handed the guard a fistful of gold coins, and then the guard unlocked the cell, tugged Dael out into the cluster of nobles.

“You gonna transport him?” the guard asked.

The man with the scar said, “I always do. My own way.” And he swung a fist.

Dael didn’t even have a chance to dodge.

To Succeed

She looked right at Dael when she spoke.

He looked at her, then at the others beside her. No one wanted an unruly slave. He’d learned that very early. Dael glanced around, spotted one of Angelus’s valets who’d given him a difficult time.

The decision was easy.

Dael swung.

The brawl that ensued was almost comical in its simplicity. Dael struck, and others fell. All those days training with Flavia had meant more than spending illicit time with her. He’d actually learned something - and he didn’t need a sword to succeed.

The man with the scar said, “I want him.”

We Can Have

He could heal. If only he’d healed the nobleman –

The creak of the prison gate opening caused heads to turn. A soldier was unlocking the gate and leading several people in. One was a burly, ugly man with a scar over one eye, and one was –

Dael swallowed hard. The woman who’d been at the nobleman’s side, the one who’d raised the cry against Flavia. She noticed him, and malice glittered in her eyes.

“I’m not supposed to be doing this,” the guard began.


The woman interrupted him. “We gave you our gold. Now show us who we can have.”

Worth Something

No. Dael refused to be bought again. He would die free - or die fighting for his freedom.

“What will they do with Flavia and Angelus?”

Tertius’ mouth twisted at Dael’s familiar address of their former masters, but he said, “Put them on trial and, as they’re noncitizens, likely execute them. It’ll take time, but by then, we’ll all have been sold.”

Dael spun around, pushed his way toward the front of the cell. He was getting out. There had to be a way. If he only he had a different gift, a better gift, one that was actually worth something.

Whoever Buys

The male servants were flung into one cell, the female servants into another. Dael found himself shoved into a corner next to Tertius, who was peering through the tiny window at the female servants.

“Hope they’re all right,” Tertius muttered.

Dael could hear them crying. He’d never much liked Tertius, but Quintus was gone, and Dael didn’t know any of the others well; they hadn’t much appreciated a foreign, untrained upstart having a position with Lady Flavia so easily.

“What will they do with us?” Dael asked.

Tertius blinked, as if just noticing him. “Sell us all to whoever buys.”

Property

Dael turned and headed for the door, saw Quintus leaping off the veranda and vanishing into the garden. He sucked in a breath, tensed, ready to run, and then a hand came down on his shoulder and a blade appeared at his throat.

“This estate is property of the Roman Government until Angelus Aurelius and his cousin are tried for their crimes against the Roman Citizenry,” a soldier said.

He spun Dael around, and Dael found himself face-to-face with one of the soldiers who had mocked Flavia after sword practice.

The soldier leered at him. “Come along, boy.”

Jeopardy

Master Angelus surrendered. To Flavia, he said,

“Are you mad? To jeopardize our position, after working so hard to build –”

Flavia responded in that language she shared with him that none of the servants had ever before, and her tone was angry, abrupt, but when the soldiers restrained her, she didn’t fight.

One of the soldiers knelt beside the dead man, the foul-breathed man who’d wanted Flavia to share Dael with him, and Dael backed up a stead, bowed his head and hunched his shoulders, hoped no one would notice him.

Flavia whispered as she was dragged past, “Run!”

What Happened Next

What happened next, Dael would never be able to properly describe, because he didn’t really know. One moment the nobleman was lunging at Flavia, the next he was on the ground, scrabbling at the hilt of his knife where it protruded from his chest. Flavia was breathing hard, her hands up before her spattered with blood.

One of the maids screamed first.

And then a little weasel of a woman who’d been at the nobleman’s side cried, “Murder! Murder by a non-citizen!”

The cry was taken up on the other side of the curtain.

And then the soldiers came.

Capable

“What know you of battle, foreigner?” the nobleman spat. He drew the blade on his belt.

“I know that for all you Romans have conquered nations and peoples, I’m still standing,” Flavia said.

The nobleman turned to Master Angelus. “You would let her speak this way? A woman?”

“If I’m just a woman, why did you draw your knife?” Flavia was taunting him.

Dael was torn between kneeling to clean up the spilled wine and moving to stand beside Flavia.

“To gut you like the foreign mongrel you are,” the man spat.

Flavia beckoned and said, “If you are capable.”

Standing Ground

The nobleman raised his eyebrows. “You speak brashly, for a girl. What would you know of war?”

A smile played at the corner of Flavia’s lips; it wasn’t a nice smile. “I know if war were to strike this house, I’d be able to run.”

Anger and embarrassment crossed the nobleman’s face. “A true warrior stands his ground!”

“He’s not a warrior if he’s standing because he has not strength to run.”

Master Angelus winced. “Cousin –”

The nobleman dropped his goblet. It clattered on the marble stair. Wine splashed everywhere. The laughter on the other side of the curtain died.

Spoils of War

“Surely,” the man said, leaning in, and Dael couldn’t help but turn his face away, “you are willing to share.”

The silence that fell was immediately shattered by a, “No.”

Dael lifted his head so fast he almost collided with the nobleman, but he, too, was looking at the source of the flat denial.

Flavia’s hands were curled into fists, and Dael recognized the silent slide of her feet as she shifted stances. She was ready for a fight. But she had no sword.

“What my cousin means –” Master Angelus began.

“Is the spoils of war are for warriors alone.”

Fortunate, Unfortunate

Master Angelus, who had risen from his place at the table, came to stand behind the nobleman, shielding the scene from the rest of the nobles who were craning their necks like curious chickens.

Dael felt himself trembling with the effort of forcing himself not to wrench away from the foul man.

“We were fortunate to obtain him at a reasonable price,” Master Angelus said. “Mostly because I caught this one myself.”

“And brought him back as a gift for your cousin? Such a generous man you are.” The nobleman’s smile changed, and Dael felt horror crawl up his spine.

Specimens

The noble who stood at the edge of the curtain, wine goblet in hand, was fat and positively ancient. Dael had heard some of the other servants joke that he was still alive only by virtue of the fact that he’d pickled himself with all the wine he drank.

Wine was rancid on his breath when he loomed over Dael, placed a finger under his chin, tilted his face up.

“It’s understandable, and frankly, enviable,” the man said.

Dael swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.

“You don’t find specimens with this coloring, do you? At least, not alive.”

Second Nature

Dael reached up, slid a hand around the back of Flavia’s neck, and kissed her.

Cerdic was right. It was dying and coming alive all at once.

It was all the times he’d been breathless after sword practice, and the sweetness of the orange fruit she’d shared with him.

It was –

“Fascinating. The lady of the house taking up with a servant.”

Dael wrenched himself back. Terror curled through his limbs, and instinctively he stepped back, bowed his head, and when had being servile become second nature?

Out of the corner of his eye, Flavia stood tall.

“What of it?”

His Chance

“It’s a wonder no one was struck blind, you mean,” Dael grumbled. Then he cleared his throat and straightened up, inclined his head at the perfect angle. “My lady, I live to serve, and serve I must, if I wish to live.”

Flavia reached up and stroked his hair. “We never imagined we’d have a golden-haired servant with eyes quite like yours.”

“Are you saying I’m odd-looking as well as hideous?” His words had no sting.

“I’m saying your beauty was beyond our imagination,” she said, and leaned in.

This was his chance. He had to take it.

Wonders

It wasn’t until after the entire formal meal had been served and cleared that Dael had to face Flavia and her smirk. He’d been tempted to spill wine or some of the smaller, neater finger foods on her, but he didn’t want to risk the lash.

Flavia gave an elaborate speech about how she was glad to have the fat, belching, powdered and coiffed nobles dining in her home, and then she excused herself to arrange for the entertainment, a gang of acrobats in the courtyard.

She stopped Dael in the kitchen.

“That tunica does wonders for you,” she said.