In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal

by Maksima, Nasia

  The sand exploded in a burst as he threw it in the myrmidon’s face.

  With a cry of surprise, the man turned his head, the sand and grit fouling his vision, smearing the lion’s head. He stumbled and swung clumsily.

  A quick sidestep, Hektor evaded the twin maces. But before he could close, the chain whistled in, cutting him off. Sand kicked up near his feet, and Hektor danced back, looking with reluctance at the huge myrmidon. If only I could finish him.

  But the other two crowded in, protecting their comrade. The chain whirred as the beast-man swung it, lashing Hektor back and back. The katar fighter crouched low, creeping closer, his griffin head obscuring his face, giving Hektor no hint of his next move. Hektor feinted, and the chain bit the sand at his feet. He darted a step left, and the katar fighter moved to block him. He darted right. The chain again.

  The lion-man cleared his eyes and brought his twin maces to bear.

  Slowly, the three backed Hektor up—fifteen feet to the Hail. Ten. Five.

  Hektor’s options were running out. He glanced at the beast-man, chain flicking back and forth. Would the same trick work twice? Time to find out.

  Gritting his teeth, Hektor stepped in. Immediately, the chain came whistling down, a weltering slash that bruised bone and tore flesh. He did not waver. Working fast, he wound the chain about his forearm. The blades sank deep, and blood welled. A mighty yank, and Hektor brought the man staggering to him.

  And as the crowd cheered, Hektor struck the beast-man a stunning blow to the jaw. Before he could recover, Hektor grappled him and spun, heaving him up and into the wall.

  Onto the blades.

  The smack of flesh and bones against wood was sickening. Blood burbled from the myrmidon’s mouth and ran down his chest. The crowd exploded in a fury of bloodlust, several men rushing to the edge of the stands to catch a closer glimpse at the mighty Hektor Actaeon. Most kept their polearms well out of reach—it would not be the first time a powerful gladiator had hauled an unwary citizen into the arena.

  And the Empress had no mercy. Those who stepped onto the hot sands of the Grand Theatre showed their quality. Or they died.

  Most of the citizens stayed clear. But one… One dared too close. With ease, Hektor reached up and plucked the polearm from unskilled hands. He could have twisted it, knocked the man off-balance and tumbled him into the arena. He did not.

  A wave of disappointment came over the crowed, rife with shouts of “Hektor the Merciful!” and “Victory to the primus palus!”

  Hektor stuck the dagger into his wide leather belt and took a two-handed grip on the polearm. Victory, indeed. He turned to face his two opponents. They stayed back, not wanting to wage war with the wall and its pitiless inhabitants. Black hair flying, he darted in. He dodged the maces, took a glancing blow on his shoulder, and focused on the weaker of the two—the katar-fighter. Grunting, he thrust in, the curved blade of the polearm making his strike slow and unwieldy.

  The man backed quickly, his parry and retreat desperate in the face of Hektor’s speed. Hektor struck again, forcing the katar-fighter back, taking an angle to prevent the lion-man from flanking him. He attacked again and again, and the katar-wielder parried again and again. The twin punch daggers beat a cadence on the haft of the polearm.

  But the katar-fighter was no novice. Craftily, he used each beat to work his way up the polearm toward Hektor, riposte by riposte. Closer and closer.

  The lion-man circled, advancing warily, watching the way Hektor maneuvered his comrade, keeping the katar-fighter between them.

  Closer. Closer.

  Hektor waited. The right time would come. He circled, keeping the two gladiators in line, forcing them to make continual adjustments. The katar-fighter crept closer. The masses roared, impatient and bloodthirsty, the arena herald drowned out by the thunder of their jeering.

  Still, Hektor waited. Another strike, another step, his opponents growing impatient beneath the eyes of thousands, beneath the insults and spitting. Hektor shut it out. The roar became his heartbeat, the rush of the masses the blood in his veins.

  The katar-fighter was the first to break, darting into the small gap, katars flashing in the hot sun. He knocked the polearm out of position, seeking Hektor’s exposed flesh.

  Barely, Hektor evaded the slashing blades and spun around his opponent. Sinking the polearm into the ground, he pulled the dagger from his belt. His other hand found the man’s helm. He pulled back on the griffin crest, exposing the white line of throat. The other man fought only a moment and then sank to his knees.

  A quick slash. Blood poured over Hektor’s hands, and the katar-fighter fell to the sand, painting it crimson—another body for the Doomsayer’s jackals to drag away.

  Another victory for Hektor Actaeon.

  The masses screamed approval.

  The impact of a mace took Hektor to the ground. Dazed, he looked up into the golden lion helm. The man leered through the lion’s mouth as he grabbed Hektor by the hair and lifted his head.

  “She said sans mercy, but I’ll not kill you, no.” The myrmidon’s voice rattled hollowly from his helm, his laughter dark and lusty. He tapped Hektor beneath the chin with his mace. “She will do what the masses want, and when they grant you mercy, I’ll enjoy fucking the famous Hektor Actaeon in the Claim tomorrow.”

  The Victor’s Claim. Hektor gritted his teeth. This man bending him over, fucking him in the dark, dank cell. Hektor’s gaze fell to the weapon’s haft, the hot steel of the mace’s head against his throat. He’d never allow it. He grabbed the end of the weapon and shoved it back with all his might, rising to his feet, putting his weight behind it.

  The butt of the weapon smashed the myrmidon in the chest.

  The breath went out of him in a whoosh.

  In a second, Hektor was on him, knocking him to the ground, delivering one more sharp blow to his helm to daze him until the man lay struggling in the sand.

  The crowd was raucous as Hektor stood, raising his arms to embrace victory. His gaze on his fallen opponent, he took up his polearm and held it horizontally.

  The Empress had indeed said sans mercy, but he was a provocator gladiator, expected to put on a show, expected to be a bit rebellious. And he was the primus palus.

  It was his right to call for a decision.

  Still, he hated this part. The Empress’s Tribute. When the clamor grew to a fevered pitch, the masses yelling for death, for glory, for the Empress to spare the life of the fallen or order it snuffed out in the sand.

  To the sound of iron fanfare, the Empress’s praetor guard entered the arena, spears at the ready in case of uprising. The lion-man struggled to his knees in supplication. He was a gladiator. He had come here to die. Like Hektor.

  Like all of us. Like Leander…

  The memory surfaced, and Hektor shoved it down hard. The Empress was rising from her cushions, her chestnut-brown hair flowing in a high breeze. In another breath, she would make her decree. Live or die.

  The crowd rose to their feet. The chant had begun. “To the sky! To the sky!”

  Hektor watched the Empress to see which way her thumb would point. To the ground, which meant weapons down, let him live. Or to the sky. Let him die. Dimly, Hektor wondered how she made such judgment, blind as she was. But he was the slave. It was for him to obey.

  “To the sky! To the sky!”

  In the end, he would do her will. Or his life would be forfeit.

  FROM THE BALCONY of House Vulpinius, Lucan held the spyglass to his eye and watched the Spectacle unfold below. His new master, Quaestor Stratos, had said nothing, but Lucan was certain the man had brought him here to study the styles of rival houses.

  But Lucan could not take his gaze from Hektor Actaeon’s gorgeous form. All those rippling muscles and sleek power. Even covered in blood and sand, the champion gladiator was wondrous to behold. Tanned skin, corded muscle. Biceps and broad shoulders honed by countless battles. A few scars added a ruggedness that Lucan found alluring. He won
dered what it would be like to taste the sweat on this man’s body, to run his tongue over those scars and soothe them with velvety kisses.

  But Hektor Actaeon was nobody’s Claim. Rumor had it he fucked in the cells below but never allowed a man to please him.

  “He is quite something, isn’t he?” Stratos’s voice broke Lucan’s reverie. For a moment he had forgotten the quaestor was there.

  Stratos of House Vulpinius seemed an odd man. Odder, perhaps, than even Alession. At least the consul had appetites Lucan could understand. Stratos, on the other hand, seemed to harbor desires that Lucan could neither guess nor fathom. He had taken Lucan from the Claim and ordered him bathed and dressed. Then he had brought him here, to House Vulpinius.

  He’d not touched him. Not so much as looked at him with a lascivious eye.

  Taking the spyglass, Lucan moved to the other side of the balcony and looked down. The curvature of the Grand Palestra and all its fine houses laid out in concentric circles, the grounds and training compounds sparkling in the sun, gardens and causeways—the entire structure a sprawling marvel that Lucan found impossible to absorb in one glance. He could not keep his gaze from darting about, dizzying him.

  Never had he been so high. The entirety of the Grand Palestra stretched out below him.

  House Pineus had been at the bottom of the Grand Palestra, a small manor and tiny grounds wallowing in the stink and refuse thrown down from those higher, those better, the real houses—Priassin, the House of Architects; Lucia, the House of Artists; Aeschylus, the House of Philosophers; Menelaus, the House of Panacea; House Actaeon, the Warriors.

  Only the ruling House of Zaerus was higher than House Vulpinius.

  Lucan had mixed feelings about his sudden rise in station, but he could not help the excitement that coursed through him. Even if it was the station of a glorified slave.

  Below, the sounds of cheering rushed up from the Empress’s Theatre. Hektor Actaeon had struck a great blow. His opponent lay dying in the dust. Lucan flexed his hands, felt his calluses.

  He was to become a novice gladiator. Soon, he would know what a true Spectacle was like. But even though the other novices were training—some at the prestigious Ludus Magnii, others at the schools of their respective houses—Stratos had kept Lucan by his side these past few days.

  At first, Lucan had been wary. He knew his golden good looks drew all manner of attentions from men. But Stratos had been content to merely take Lucan on a tour of House Vulpinius’s gladiatorial school. At the sight of the sand-strewn amphitheatre, the racks of weapons both blunted and sharp, the rows upon rows of straw dummies and practice poles for striking, the extensive barracks and plush quarters for the master trainers as well as the primus palus of the House, Lucan had forgotten any wariness.

  House Pineus had not been able to afford one-tenth the richness of these halls. Lucan was still reeling from his fortune, both ill and good. He was just another of the unskilled, a novice hoping to make his name in the arena. No other Unnamed fighter had been spared the burning of the house.

  And now here he was, watching the Spectacle. For some reason, Stratos wanted him to see it. To see Hektor Actaeon.

  Stratos beckoned, and Lucan returned to the side that faced the Empress’s Grand Theatre. Stratos laid his fingers on the rail of the balcony and leaned over, as though his own spyglass did not afford him a close enough look at Hektor Actaeon. His desire was evident in the tension of his jaw, the way he licked his lips. To Lucan, it felt an old desire, though, blunted and bitter. He shifted uncomfortably, and his earlier fear rose.

  He hoped the quaestor didn’t turn to him for comfort.

  “I heard Hektor Actaeon made his name within his first three bouts,” Lucan said for the sake of saying something. It was true, and everyone knew it. Hektor Actaeon had been called Black Spear for only two fights before the Empress acknowledged him and allowed his name to be spoken in her theatre.

  Lucan cleared his throat. He sounded like one of the amatores who trolled the Gates of Life in the hopes a gladiator would look her way.

  But Stratos only laughed darkly and gestured around House Vulpinius’s private balcony, its purple awning and curtains providing ample shade. “Make yourself comfortable.” He indicated a table laden with bread and cheeses, dates, and a few rare apples. “Enjoy.”

  Lucan looked back at the Spectacle below. The delicacies were enticing, but he’d never seen the Melee from this angle, and he’d only heard rumors of Hektor Actaeon, primus palus and favored of the Empress. It was said she only put his prowess on display when she was in one of her fouler moods. Truth be told, it was the hottest day yet of the sun’s turn. Even the awnings and curtains could not keep the balconies entirely cool, the wave of heat carried on the very wind.

  Perhaps the rumors were true, that even the weather bowed to the mighty Empress.

  Lucan barely bothered with rumor and conjecture about the Empress herself. He had been a slave his entire life, and now, even as a novice gladiator he was so far beneath her as to be unworthy of notice. The best he could hope for was to wear the laurels before he died. And perhaps enjoy the odd bit of fancy here and there. He glanced back at the table. The bloodthirsty screams in the Theatre ramped up to a roar.

  “To the sky! To the sky!”

  Lucan forgot the lure of the table.

  “Come.” Stratos took his arm in a brotherly fashion. “He won’t yet kill his opponent. He’ll preen and prance about, draw the crowd to further frenzy. All that blood and lust is why she likes him.”

  The last was said with bitterness. Lucan dared a glance at the quaestor’s face, but Stratos only smiled winningly. Below, Hektor Actaeon had dashed his final opponent—a myrmidon in a lion’s-head helm—to the ground, and now strutted about, displaying his arms to the delight of the crowd. On high, the Empress paused while the crowd held its collective breath.

  Stratos’s lip curled as he regarded the feminine figure in white. “You may as well eat. She could stand there for hours.”

  Lucan reminded himself that he was this man’s slave now. Obediently, he tore his gaze away from the sight below. Setting the spyglass carefully on the table, he delved into the delicacies. The nutty burst of dates on his tongue was pure pleasure. He gobbled a handful and sampled the cheese. He found the harder bread not to his liking, but dipping it in a cup of summer-wine softened it. He tried to eat fast despite the heady taste, and cautioned himself not to gorge.

  The screams and shouts of the crowd rose impossibly higher. The Empress had stepped closer to the edge of her balcony, her left arm outstretched. She was about to make her decision. Leaving off with the food, Lucan hastened back to the rail. Stratos came with him, a look of practiced interest on his face.

  At the Theatre’s center, Hektor Actaeon stood over his fallen foe, bloodied and battered, all his corded muscles and predatory posture on display. Lucan could not help but wonder what kind of lover he would be—protective, gentle, loving, or swift and demanding, taking what he wanted. Perhaps a combination of the two.

  Lucan hoped the heat would hide his blush.

  Stratos’s smirk told him otherwise. “I am glad you seem to enjoy watching him. Soon you’ll do more than watch.”

  His words were layered, the double meaning clear, and Lucan could not help but touch his chest, his left pectoral, where Alession had carved his dark spell. No trace of the strange ebon brand remained, only healed skin, fresh and fair. And yet, when Stratos spoke, a tiny pang of pain awoke inside Lucan.

  It bloomed like a poisonous flower, throwing out tendrils inside his chest. Lucan told himself he was imagining it.

  “Soon enough,” Stratos repeated.

  Lucan’s heart raced beneath his fingers. More than watch? Hektor Actaeon was the primus palus. The odds-makers wouldn’t grant Lucan three turns of the water clock in the arena with that man.

  Stratos must have seen the stricken look on Lucan’s face. He chuckled, not unkindly. “No, my friend. I mean, soon you wil
l train with him.”

  “Train?” Lucan looked at the quaestor with incredulity. “With Hektor Actaeon?”

  “Yes,” Stratos said. He bit into a date and chewed with pleasure. “He is a primus palus and allowed to teach…for the proper incentives. I have arranged it with Agamemnon Actaeon of his House, for no small cost. Hektor will train you in the mornings.” He clapped Lucan on the shoulder a bit hard. “You’ll be a champion gladiator yet. You’ll make your name and bring honor to House Vulpinius.”

  Lucan nodded, too dumbfounded to speak. He glanced down at where Hektor Actaeon stood victorious. Lucan’s heart jolted.

  But this time it was for altogether different reasons.

  BLOOD AND SAND and the lust for battle. These were Hektor’s elements, and in them he was a dark god, akin to the Doomsayer himself in power and potency. He raised the stolen polearm over his vanquished foe and preened. The masses rose, their fervor a thunder across the theatre, his name on the lips of every man and woman.

  “Hektor! Hektor! Hektor!”

  He glared up at the Empress. He knew the adoration, the accolades were meaningless.

  The Empress had been the Empress so long no one remembered her name. But in the end, everyone obeyed her—everyone who did not want to die as an undesirable noxii in the arena.

  Only a few had ever succeeded at defying her.

  Looking down at his opponent kneeling in the sand, feeling the heat of the man’s hands around his knees, Hektor was struck with harsh memory—Leander kneeling, his golden hair fallen around his bruised face. Blood gushing onto the sand. So much blood.

  Leander. Hektor swayed as a wave of crippling pain assailed him. Three years. It had been three years, and yet he would not stop blaming himself.

  Gladiators died in the arena all the time. But that time it had been Leander.