Forbidden to the Gladiator

by Greta Gilbert

  He tightened the leather belt holding up his loincloth and checked the buckles on his armour. He had been given a greave to protect his left leg, a manica to shield his right arm, a small breastplate to protect his middle, along with a helmet and even a shield. He was better protected than he had ever been before and he had never needed it less.

  The ringmaster stood in the middle of the stage and welcomed the crowd, then motioned to the opponents. Cal felt a shove and headed across the stage towards the ringmaster. His opponent marched towards him from the other side of the stage, a man who appeared equally matched to Cal in both size and strength.

  The two met on either side of the ringmaster, who raised both men’s arms and shouted to the crowd. ‘Good citizens of Ephesus, your Magnificent Emperor gives you the Destroyer of Didyma versus the Beast of Britannia!’ The crowd cheered as the gladiators stepped down from the stage to the large sparring ring just below it.

  These are the last moments of my life, Cal thought.

  He did not wish to spend them inside a helmet. He cast the heavy metal hood to the side and the audience exploded with cheers. He rewarded them with a mighty sneer. Come to think of it, he did not need the damned breastplate, either. If he was going to die, he wanted a clean, unimpeded death. He pulled off the plate and tossed it against the wall of the ring. More cheers. He continued to throw off his armour until the only thing he wore was his loincloth and the only thing he held was his gladius sword.

  He met his opponent at the centre of the ring and the two traded dozens of blows. As he fought, Cal knew he should be remembering his wife. He would be joining her soon, after all. But all he could think of was Arria. His heart ached as he envisioned her scowling at him from between the bars of his cell, adorable in her fury. He imagined the softness of her fingers against his skin, the wisdom of her words in his ears, the music of her laugh, the smell of her, the taste of her. Overcome by the sweetness of his memories, his will to fight faded.

  He threw aside his sword and collapsed to his knees before his opponent.

  The crowd gasped. Out of the corner of his eye, Cal saw the Emperor rise to his feet. With a gesture of his hand, he called off Cal’s opponent. ‘Beast of Britannia, I command you to stand,’ shouted Trajan. ‘Why do you not fight?’

  ‘I was commanded not to fight,’ said Cal, rising to his feet.

  ‘By whom?’

  Cal shook his head, saying nothing. Trajan glanced at the governor, who was staring into his goblet, pretending ignorance. Cal wondered how much money the governor had staked on Cal’s demise. He sensed that Trajan was wondering the same.

  ‘As Emperor of the Roman Empire, I command you to fight. Whatever orders you have received,’ Trajan said, cutting the governor a look, ‘they are overruled by my own. I command you to fight, Beast of Britannia, and if you live, you shall have whatever you wish as your reward.’ Trajan raised his voice for the benefit of the crowd. ‘This is the Roman Empire, by the gods. We fight!’

  He might have said more. He might have given a damned speech for all Cal knew. All Cal could hear was the deafening roar of the crowd and above it, nine small words repeating inside his mind like a chant: If you live, you shall have whatever you wish.

  Whatever he wished? It was not hard to think of what that was. He wished for Arria to be set free. He had failed his wife, he had failed himself, but if he could somehow secure Arria’s freedom before he died, then it would have all been worth it.

  This was more than a rudius to set him free. It was the one thing that Cal could not refuse. What Trajan had offered him was nothing less than a chance at redemption.

  ‘What say you, Beast?’ asked Trajan.

  Cal gave Trajan a deep bow, then picked up his sword and lifted it to the sky. Yes, he would fight. Whatever the Destroyer gave him, Cal would give him worse. Cal could practically picture the expression on Arria’s face when she learned she had been freed, that it had been the last wish of a broken old gladiator with nothing left to lose. Satisfied, Trajan nodded and took his seat. The audience quieted, rippling with anticipation.

  Cal felt light, energised. He danced around his side of the arena in a show of ease, thrashing his sword through the air. The Destroyer stalked towards Cal, then broke into a run as Cal dug his feet deep into the sand. Bracing himself, Cal held up his sword to deflect the Destroyer’s blow.

  But he never got the chance, for in that instant, a long wooden pole came flying through the air. It clipped the Destroyer on the shoulder, then tumbled to the ground. The Destroyer stumbled and the object rolled to Cal’s feet.

  Cal assumed that it had come from the crowd—tossed by some drunken troublemaker. The Destroyer was returning to his side of the arena already, visibly angered by the nuisance.

  High up in the women’s section, there was a collective gasp. Before Cal’s eyes, a woman dressed in black was swinging her legs over the marble barrier to the ring. She pulled the shawl from her head to reveal a long black braid, though he would have known her even if she had been covered in feathers. ‘Arria!’ he cried.

  ‘Cal!’

  She had come for him. His beautiful, brave, foolish woman had come. She rushed to his side and he caught her in his arms. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘I have come to rescue you!’ she shouted. She bent to retrieve her weapon.

  ‘With a pole?’

  ‘It is not a pole. It is a spear.’

  Curses, she had lost her mind.

  ‘Guards, seize her!’ shouted the governor. Six Praetorian guards came running on to the stage and Cal had a sudden sense that he had lived this scene before. This time, there was nowhere for Arria to run. He had to keep her safe.

  He gripped his sword. ‘Arria whatever you do, you must stay behind me,’ he ordered.

  The governor’s guards were as large and fearsome as the Destroyer and much better equipped. They jumped down from the stage and unsheathed their swords. ‘Do you hear me? Stay behind me, Arria. That is an order.’

  He felled the first guard with a ferocious blow to the thigh, but the next did not succumb so quickly. As they fought, Cal noticed one of the other guards moving behind them. Arria had lifted her pole and appeared to be using it as a defence against the stalking guard.

  Cal could not let her die, whatever he did. He thrust his blade hard and caught the second guard in the side, sending him to the ground at last. A third guard quickly took the second’s place. Cal was trading blows with him when he heard the sound of metal on wood.

  ‘Arria!’ he shouted. He plunged his blade into the third guard’s arm, sending him to the ground, and turned to discover the stalking guard now dragging Arria away. Cal raised his blade and severed the guard’s arm, freeing Arria.

  The cheers were so loud that he could barely hear the clanging of the blades as he felled the fifth guard and then the sixth.

  The theatre quieted and it was just the two of them standing in the middle of the arena amidst a collection of writhing bodies. But they were not done. The Destroyer remained. He was standing on the other side of the theatre, looking like a bull about to charge. Meanwhile, another set of guards was running down the stairs of the theatre, their swords drawn.

  ‘Cal?’

  ‘What, my darling?’

  ‘It is never going to end, is it?’

  ‘No, we cannot beat them. Not ever.’

  ‘But we can still run, can we not?’

  Cal paused. He had tried to run. They always found him; they always won. Why would now be any different? Perhaps because this time he would not be alone. ‘We can,’ he said. He grabbed her hand. ‘And we must.’

  They had not taken two steps towards the stage when the Destroyer made his charge. Cal pushed Arria ahead of him and told her to run, then waited until the last moment to turn and slice his blade cleanly across the gladiator’s muscled neck.

  The
Destroyer’s head rolled to the edge of the sparring ring and came to a halt at the foot of the Emperor’s box. The crowd howled with excitement as the Emperor took to his feet.

  ‘Governor, call off your guards,’ commanded Trajan. Cal’s pursuers stopped in their tracks and Trajan gave Cal an admiring nod. ‘You have fought off more foes than Caesar at Alesia, Gladiator. What say you?’

  ‘There may be gloria in taking life, Emperor,’ Cal said, ‘but there is no joy in it.’ The crowd grumbled and booed, but the Emperor nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘I would offer you the rudius, but it seems your woman has beat me to it.’ The Emperor nodded at Arria’s wooden pole. ‘Hello, Burglar,’ he said. There was a spate of laughter and the Emperor grinned gamely. ‘So tell me, Beast of Britannia, what is your wish?’

  Cal could hardly believe what he had just heard. He gave a humble bow. ‘I wish that the woman by my side be set free.’ He felt an elbow in his ribs, then watched in horror as Arria stepped forward.

  ‘What he means, Divine Emperor, is that he wishes for us both to be set free.’

  Was there no end to this woman’s boldness? Had she no idea that such a show of greed could just as quickly be punished as rewarded? Cal stepped forward. ‘Forgive her impertinence, Emperor. She is Greek.’

  He had no idea of the jest he had just made and he watched in wonder as the crowd exploded into a cacophony of laughter. When he dared look up, he saw that the Emperor was laughing, too.

  ‘By the gods, I free you both!’ shouted the Emperor, ‘lest these games collapse into a comedic drama! Go now and forge your paths, and let no one in Ephesus stop you!’

  And just like that, Cal and Arria were free.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  There had been no room at the inn. Serenus, a small village to begin with, had been overrun by citizens on pilgrimage to the Artemisia Festival and even the villagers’ homes were filled with travellers. Mercifully, a local farmer had granted Arria’s mother and brother shelter in his barn and Epona and Grandmother had found them there.

  ‘You go in first,’ said Cal, who wrapped his cloak around himself against the cool of the evening. A patrician man had gifted him the garment as they had exited the arena that afternoon. He had draped it over Cal’s shoulders and counselled him to hide from the gods. ‘For your performance has surely made them jealous!’ the man had said.

  Cal had nodded his gratitude, but moments later he had muttered, ‘It is the performance that lies ahead that truly matters.’

  ‘They will love you,’ Arria had assured him.

  ‘I would settle for acceptance,’ Cal had said.

  When they had arrived outside the barn, Cal was trailing behind her. ‘I will go in first if you wish,’ she said.

  When Arria opened the door, she beheld her mother’s enlarged figure reclining on a bed of straw.

  ‘Arria! Oh, thank God!’ she cried. ‘I prayed for you. I feared for your safety.’

  Arria could not help but smile. ‘My safety?’

  The farmer’s wife had been kind enough to provide her mother and brother with blankets and there was a bowl of uneaten soup beside her mother’s bed. ‘We have been so very fortunate,’ her mother said through shivering, weather-chapped lips.

  Arria tucked the blanket over her mother’s arms and shoulders. She looked so pale and sickly. It seemed doubtful she would survive the next few days, let alone the birth, which was already overdue.

  ‘I am so sorry, Mother.’ Arria searched her mother’s eyes, so red and sunken with mourning. ‘It is all my fault.’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘Your father chased his own demise.’

  ‘He remains inside my heart nonetheless,’ said Arria and it was true. The damn, foolhardy gambler was a part of her and always would be.

  The two embraced and, for the first time in the seven months since she had been sold, Arria breathed. Free air was different, she decided at once. It was sharper, somehow, and almost suspiciously sweet.

  ‘We will survive this,’ said her brother. He stepped from the shadows and wrapped a blanket around Arria’s shoulders. In a voice so clear and certain that Arria scarcely recognised it, he said, ‘We shall make a new life.’

  Epona and Grandmother stepped forward and embraced Arria in turn and Arria smiled when Epona’s horse whinnied out a greeting from the corner of the barn. ‘I have named her Ephesia,’ Epona said.

  ‘A perfect name,’ said Arria, beaming. ‘I am happy to make her acquaintance.’

  In that moment Cal stepped into the barn carrying an armful of wood.

  ‘And this is Cal,’ said Arria, feeling a swell of pride.

  Cal set the bundle down upon the floor and in his effort his cloak came open.

  Arria watched in amusement as her mother’s expression progressed from confusion to fear to silent awe as she beheld the thick leather belt and blood-spattered loincloth that comprised Cal’s gladiator costume.

  ‘Cal, this is my mother and my brother, Clodius, and Epona and Grandmother, the women I told you about from the workshop. Family, this is Cal.’

  The women tossed Cal friendly nods, but Arria’s brother wore a suspicious frown. ‘How did you meet this man?’ he asked, swinging forward on his crutches.

  ‘He defended my life,’ Arria said. ‘And...he made me wish for it in the first place.’ Her gaze locked with Cal’s and an invisible current of tenderness passed between them.

  ‘You have a familiar face, Cal,’ said Clodius. ‘Whence do I know it?’

  ‘Cal is a famous gladiator, Brother,’ Arria cut in. ‘You may know him as the Beast of Britannia.’ Her brother was studying Cal carefully. Too carefully.

  ‘I have heard of him,’ said her brother through tightening lips. ‘Do you really hail from Britannia, man?’

  ‘He hails from—’

  ‘Please, Arria,’ her brother interrupted. ‘I am sure the man can answer for himself.’ Clodius fixed his gaze on Cal.

  ‘Not Britannia,’ answered Cal. ‘I come from the land that Romans call Britannia.’

  ‘What part of Britannia?’ her brother asked. There was a storm stirring beneath his words. Arria could almost feel its winds.

  ‘The north.’

  ‘Brigante territory? Iceni, perhaps?’

  ‘The far north.’

  Clodius cleared his throat. ‘Caledonia?’

  Cal said nothing.

  Clodius’s features turned to stone. ‘That is funny, a Caledonian man took my leg at the Battle of Graupius Mountain.’

  ‘I know,’ said Cal. The air between them seemed to develop edges.

  Arria’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘How do you know, Cal?’ she asked.

  ‘I know because I am he,’ said Cal, not taking his eyes off Clodius. ‘I am the man who took your brother’s leg.’

  Arria froze. ‘You must be mistaken.’

  ‘I am not mistaken.’ There was a kind of sadness in his voice. Or was it a kind of defeat? ‘I cut off this man’s leg in the chaos of battle. He was going to kill my captain, so I stopped him with my longsword.’

  Arria heard a gasp. Perhaps it was her own gasp. Or maybe it was the soft, wicked cackle of one of the three Fates. Surely the vexatious old crones were spinning their threads somewhere near and having themselves a good laugh. Arria stared at the sunken part of her brother’s tunic where his leg used to be, then glanced at Cal’s strong arm, currently squeezing the hilt of his gladius.

  ‘Why did you not kill me?’ snarled Clodius. He gripped his pugio.

  ‘Because it was not necessary.’

  ‘I begged you for death and you pissed on me.’

  ‘I cleaned the wound. I gave you a chance.’

  ‘I did not ask for a chance.’ Clodius lifted his blade to Cal’s throat.

  ‘Clodius!’ Arria gasped. ‘Please st
op! It is in the past—’

  ‘Shut up, Arria!’ Clodius shouted. He gestured to the stump of his leg. ‘Does this look like it is in the past?’

  For so many months Arria had battled against forgetting. She believed it a kind of illness—something that would invade her mind and make her forget her desire to be free.

  But now she realised that forgetting could also be a kind of cure. Each day, Clodius woke up and gazed at his leg and relived the worst day of his life. He was a prisoner of his memory, a slave to it. Forgetting was the only way he would ever be free.

  Forget, Clodius, Arria thought. Just let it all go.

  ‘You will need me on the journey to come,’ offered Cal. He glanced at the blade Clodius held a hairsbreadth from his throat. ‘I can hunt and I can fight.’

  ‘We do not need you,’ said Clodius. ‘We only need our bag of coins and my good name in our journey to Eboracum.’

  Cal stiffened. ‘Your journey to Eboracum?’

  Clodius gave an angry nod. ‘The town belongs to Rome now, with a proper Roman fort. My name is on the Distributions List there.’

  ‘Distributions List?’

  ‘A list of Caledonii lands allotted to Roman soldiers. The Romans did win the Battle of Graupius Mountain, or did you not hear?’

  ‘Those are not your lands,’ Cal growled. ‘They belong to my people.’

  ‘Your people?’ hissed Clodius. ‘There are very few of your people left now, I’m afraid. The men are dead and the women have taken up with Roman soldiers.’

  Pools of rage gathered in Cal’s eyes. ‘My tribe’s women were ravaged by Roman soldiers and murdered. My own wife was—’

  ‘Raped? Killed?’ Clodius offered viciously. It was as if Cal was the one who had lost a leg and now Clodius was the one pissing on it. ‘Clearly you care little for your late wife, or you would not have found someone to take her place.’ He glanced at Arria.

  ‘I love my wife, and no one will ever take her place,’ Call hissed. He slid his gladius from its hilt and held it at Clodius’s stomach. It was Arria who shrieked, however, for it was as if he had already plunged the blade into Arria’s own heart.