‘I cannot lie with you—not any more,’ he said. ‘I cannot do this any more. I just want to be with my wife. In the Otherworld.’
He watched the colour drain from her face, saw how she laboured to keep her breaths even. She had offered him one of the most precious things she had to give and he had just refused her. He might as well have taken a blade to her gut.
Not that any of what he said had been true. He wanted her so badly that he ached. He had even dreamed about her—hot, wicked dreams that he shied to recall. Even now, he caught a glimpse of her shape and felt himself awaken. He wanted to rip off her ragged tunic and take her right there, right against the wall, with the coals of the brazier smouldering in her eyes.
But the words had been spoken. He had stacked them carefully like a wall of bricks between them and waited for her to call the guard.
Instead she crossed back to the brazier and took her seat in the chair beside it. ‘Tell me about your wife,’ she said softly.
‘What?’
‘Tell me about her. What did she look like?’
It was the most unexpected thing she could have said.
‘Come now, Cal. If you are going to condemn me to lose my innocence to some old lecher, you can at least talk to me a while. What was she like?’
And there it was. No sharp words or pitiable tears. Just a simple question. Cal paused.
‘Was she tall or short?’
‘Ah, my wife was tall, almost my height,’ he said.
‘And?’
He closed his eyes. ‘She had long golden hair and eyes the colour of the sky. Her nose was large and she had a mark of Venus just here.’ He pointed to the side of his chin. ‘She did not smile much, but when she did it was like...’ He paused, flushing with the memory.
‘Like what?’
‘Like when the sails of a ship catch the wind.’
She grinned. ‘How did you meet?’
How had they met? It had been so long since he’d thought of it. ‘She was my best friend’s sister. We had known each other since before we could speak. When we came of age, our hands were bound in my uncle’s ash tree grove and we placed our oathing stone beneath its largest tree.’
She was nodding, encouraging him to go on. ‘We moved into the small house I had built for us at the grove’s edge. We had ten sheep, a cow and a large garden.’
‘It sounds like heaven,’ said Arria wistfully.
‘We had a useless old dog that was missing a leg. When I brought the sheep home each night the pathetic creature would wag its tail and my wife would smile and say, “Look! She is so happy to see you!”’
He laughed. It was the primary way his wife had expressed her love to him—through that ridiculous dog. But it had been enough.
‘My father once owned a small dog,’ offered Arria. ‘My mother hated the creature, but when my father left for the campaigns in Britannia, she cared for him tenderly.’
‘Before he became a gambler.’
‘When my eldest brother did not return from his military service, something in my father died. My younger brother did return, but my father does not see him. He sees only what he does not have.’
Cal shook his head. ‘So many Romans chase after Fortuna, not knowing that they already enjoy her favour.’
Arria peered out the high slit of window and caught sight of the rising moon. ‘Before I was enslaved, I was that kind of Roman,’ she said. ‘I did not know the world through the eyes of a slave. I pitied myself in my poverty and I condemned my father and brother for making it so. But now I understand that I cannot condemn them, for I have not seen what they have seen.’
It was perhaps the most thoughtful thing Cal had ever heard anyone say. ‘How did your eldest brother die?’
‘He was ambushed by a gang of Caledonian warriors on his way back to the fort at Eboracum. He was bludgeoned to death and his head placed on a stake.’
Cal gulped. He did not know what to say. Her eldest brother had likely been killed by men he knew.
‘And your wife?’ she asked, filling the silence. ‘How did you lose her?’
‘It was Roman soldiers,’ he muttered. ‘They looted our town and burned it.’
‘I see,’ said Arria and bowed her head. ‘And how did you become enslaved?’
His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I awoke the following morning, lying beside her. That’s when I felt the shackles being fastened to my ankles.’
‘You lay beside her all night?’
‘After that I was taken to the quarry.’
‘So how came you to the arena?’
‘There was an uprising at the quarry,’ said Cal. Twelve years of hatred pressed into a single afternoon. He had killed every Roman guard he could find, then gone in search of more.
‘Why do you shake your head? Do you regret the uprising?’
‘I could have escaped.’
‘Why did you not?’
He had not escaped because a hundred Roman soldiers had not been enough. Nor had a thousand. After twelve years of being treated like an animal, he had quietly become one.
She was watching him carefully. ‘You can tell me the truth.’
‘Because I enjoyed the killing,’ he admitted. ‘I loved slitting their Roman throats with their Roman swords. They are monsters, your glorious Roman men. Thieves. They boast of honour, but have none. They killed my wife! They killed my wife...’
He shook his head, trying to gather his wits. How little it all mattered now. How little he mattered. Three years in the arena and he was finished. Beaten. He had done worse than fail, he had turned his rage on undeserving foes. Without knowing it, he had become the monster everyone believed he was.
He gazed at the floor. ‘They make a desert and call it peace,’ he muttered.
His anger was gone now. They had looted it from him, harvested it like gold from the graves of ancient Caledonian kings. Enough. He would no longer kill for Rome’s entertainment. Nor would he hold out hope for some futile vision of revenge.
He was tired, so very tired. His head throbbed. His bones ached. His ears still rang with the clash of swords.
But it was not just battle that had tired him. It was her. She had kept him up at night. The woman with the brown eyes and shiny long braid and nothing left to lose. Since they had last met, he had thought of little else but her and had been unable to find peace. And now that she was here, his heart was at rest and suddenly all he wished for was sleep.
He lay back on the bed. ‘It is your fault, Arria,’ he muttered as oblivion took him. ‘It is all your fault.’
‘What is my fault, Cal?’
‘That I am not dead.’
Chapter Fifteen
She watched in wonder as his exhaustion overtook him. In only moments, he was sprawled across his bed, lost in slumber.
Sleep well, tired warrior.
She sat back in the chair and studied him. She did not blame him for rejecting her. She finally understood how selfish she had been. Killing was not like weaving. It was not something you could do day after day, week after week, without losing some essential piece of your soul. It was no wonder he wished for death. Defy them by staying alive, she had begged him, trying to stoke his waning spirit. But it was not a desire for noble justice that had fuelled her words. It was greed. She had wanted him to stay alive for her.
Because whenever she thought of him, her fingers ached a little less, the moments passed a little more quickly and her stomach clenched with an unusual kind of hunger.
She should have never asked him to take her innocence. What an audacious fool she had been. To presume that he could ever want her in that way—it was the height of arrogance. She had witnessed the lengths to which he was willing to go to resurrect his wife’s memory. Arria had been mistaken to think he would ever want anyone else. All he wished was to j
oin his wife in the afterlife and Arria had denied him that.
She would not do it again.
The coals in the brazier had finally burned out. The only light that remained was a small torch flickering in the hallway across from the cell. Ribbons of light and shadow danced over his supine form, which rose and fell with his slow breaths. He had descended into deep slumber.
She crossed the cell and peered down at his face. She had always been good with faces, but when she had tried to imagine his, something always crowded the vision—something warm and peaceful—a feeling rather than an image.
Now she followed the craggy contours of his cheeks, studied the thick rise of his lips, watched his strong, stern nose move slightly with his breaths. She wanted to write it all into her memory before the torchlight faded.
And when it did, where would she sleep? Brutus had paid for Arria to stay with Cal all night. If she lay on the floor, she would freeze, for there was no bed mat. Already, the cell had grown cold and she shivered in dread of a night spent pacing for warmth. If she wished to rest at all, she would have to lie beside him and share his blanket.
The torch was in its final spasms. She removed her sandals and lay down beside him, gently pulling the blanket up over them both. When she was certain she had not disturbed him, she moved further beneath the blanket until she was completely covered by it. She let her head rest against his shoulder.
He radiated heat. She could feel it emanating from his skin like warmth from coals. It soaked through to her bones and filled the air around her in a toasty, blissful cocoon. For the first time in months, she was not cold.
She snuggled closer. The bed was so soft. She wondered if it had been stuffed with feathers. It hovered so high off the ground. It was as if they were suspended together above the earth.
Gently, she wrapped her arm about his chest. She did not want to let him go, though she knew she did not have a choice. He had made his wish clear and she had to honour it. He wanted to return to his wife. After tonight, she would never see him again.
The thought made her feel bleak. Get tough, she told herself, but imagining the world without Cal was like imagining a world without windows. Let him go, she told herself and gazed up at the moon.
Finally, she closed her eyes and let sleep take her.
* * *
She was awakened by the distant shriek of a cat, followed by the sound of howling wind. The room was cold and black. She must have rolled over in her sleep, for now she faced the hallway and she could hear the rhythmic snores of the other gladiators as they echoed down the hall.
They seemed so very close—as if they were breathing into her own ear.
She blinked, then realised that one of them was breathing in her ear. Cal. She perceived his arm was wrapped around her waist and caught her breath. It seemed that she had turned on her side in her sleep and he had turned with her.
She exhaled, delighting in how he had moulded his battle-hardened chest against the shape of her back. She felt so safe in his embrace and so fantastically warm. It was as if they were reposed together in their own private laconicum enjoying the dry, pulsing heat.
She smiled at the image: two pretty peacocks lounging amidst the marble and bronze. She would feed him grapes from their silver platter while he massaged her naked flanks with rose oil.
Arria had imagined such a life a thousand times, in all its gaudy detail. But she knew now that if she had been born into such wealth, she would have never appreciated it.
She appreciated everything now. A breath of fresh air, the sun on her face, the gaze of a man with eyes like green pools.
She snuggled closer. He had said that he did not wish to lie with her any more, but that meant that he had wished for it once, did it not? And he had all but admitted that she was the reason he had fought so fiercely at the circus—for the promise of this night together.
There was one last thought she clung to. When she had stood before him, he had breathed in her scent. It was a small thing and she might have believed he was simply drawing deep breaths. But she had seen him close his eyes and lean close and it was as if he were drinking her in. As if he could not get enough of her.
And now, in the depths of his slumber, he held her.
They were small actions, but they were enough to make her think that she was not all alone in her yearning. She wanted to believe that part of him did want her, if only because he was a man and she a woman.
She breathed in his scent—that strange, irresistible mix of sweat and sunburned sand. Even if he had refused her, she could at least pretend he had not. She could imagine that he had shown her the mysteries of love, had opened the palace of passion to her and made her its queen. And now they lay together, slumbering in a lovers’ bliss.
She sighed and closed her eyes, basking in the fantasy. She was just returning to slumber when she felt his lips press against her ear.
Her heart jumped. Small, invisible feathers tickled down the length of her neck. She listened closely. The speed of his breaths had not changed. He was still asleep.
He kissed her ear again and the feathers continued to bother her skin, coaxing her body into a kind of blissful agitation. He nuzzled closer. He must have been in the midst of some beautiful dream—it was the only explanation for this cascade of affection. In that case, Arria hoped he would dream it until dawn.
But now his lips had begun to travel. They moved from the base of her ear down her neck, kissing with slow but perceptible purpose. He slid his arm to her waist and pulled her closer, and she felt something large and hard press against her buttocks.
By the thunder of Jove, what was that? But she knew exactly what it was. She knew it as surely as she knew her own heartbeat, which was getting faster by the second.
He was experiencing a special dream then—one that most certainly involved his wife. Even in his dreams, he yearned to unite with her, or so it seemed. And that was well, too.
Though the very thought of it made Arria’s soul ache.
And now something else was aching inside her. Deep in her womanly chasm, a nagging yearning, accompanied by a strange heat. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, it would go away.
No, that just made it worse. With her eyes closed she could only think of his desire pressing against her backside.
And her heart—what was wrong with it? It was beating so loudly now. She could scarcely hear her own thoughts. And when had it become so hot? Perhaps if she gently stepped out of the bed...
But he would not release her. Instead he pulled her closer still. By the gods, he was enormous. What dark, sensual dream had inspired him to such heights? Such widths? More importantly, why was she not afraid? By rights she should have been terrified. She should have been reaching for her shoes, or the gate, or for the pitcher of water that she could pour over both of them to startle them back into their right minds.
Perhaps she should cough or clear her voice—do something that would coax him into a more gentle waking. But would that not also be a kind of cruelty? Besides, it was not as if she were uncomfortable. No, not exactly. Just very, very hot.
She angled her face over the blanket and let the night air cool her cheeks. Better to stay put. Let him have his moment of bliss. If she could play the part of his one true love, then she was happy to do so. If she could just slow her breaths, which were coming so quickly now. Perhaps if she could fold the blanket down a little...
Ah, there. Much better.
His face was still nuzzled in her braid, but at least she was cooler now. She felt his hand slide up to touch her breast. ‘Rydych chi’n teimlo mor dda,’ he whispered suddenly.
Something deep inside her seemed to hurl itself from the roof of Ephesus’s tallest insula, then go plunging into the sea.
‘Mor feddal.’
He was speaking the tongue of wild men again, though the words themselves were gentle and s
weet. Now there was no doubt in her mind. The caress, the words, the nuzzling kisses: Cal was dreaming of making love to his wife. And in his dream, Arria was she.
He exhaled, then pushed his desire more firmly against her back.
She could have stopped him right then. A loud sneeze. A gentle nudge. It would have been the decent thing to do. But she did not.
The truth was that she loved how his large hand caressed her breast. She loved his arm around her, pulling her closer. And she loved his desire pressing up against her, urgently, almost pleadingly, as if she alone held the key to his satisfaction.
Was it wrong to deceive him in such a way? To let him believe, dreamily, that she was someone else? If the situation were reversed—if she were the one who was dreaming—would she wish to be awoken? Well, that was easy enough to answer: no, not at all. Not in a thousand years.
‘Fy nghariad,’ he uttered. The words were familiar. He had said them to the flaxen-haired woman several times. My love, perhaps. She let the words invade her body like an elixir. This powerful, honourable, magnificent man was calling her his love.
So what if he believed she was his wife? So what if his desire for her was not real, but a product of his dream? This was the first and quite possibly the last time in her life she would ever feel a good man’s arms around her and, by the gods, she was going to enjoy it.
He sighed contentedly. She imagined that in his dream he lay inside a little round hut with a fire blazing in its centre. He was curled on a fur carpet next to his wife and was whispering words of passion into her ear, telling her how much he wanted her, how much he needed her.
‘Arria,’ he said.
She froze. Held her breath.
‘Arria,’ he repeated more urgently.
What did he mean, Arria?
Chapter Sixteen
It was not just her nearness. Nor was it her soft, warm body, which fit inside his so perfectly. Or the smell of her, or the heat of her, or the way her breaths came in fast, lusty puffs. It was her. Just her. Arria.
‘Turn towards me, Arria. Please. Let me see you.’
Forbidden to the Gladiator Page 12