In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal

by Maksima, Nasia

  It was true, Stratos considered. Perhaps he would have been better off in House Lucia with the artists or House Aeschylus with the philosophers. But here he was. The Oracles had seen fit to place him in House Vulpinius at birth.

  And no one, not even the Empress herself, questioned an Oracle.

  Stratos pushed himself away from the column he’d been leaning on. Another deep pull from his wineskin and he left the comfort of the shady portico for the burning sands of the training grounds.

  The sun blared down, ensuring he kept his head bowed. Good. Then I won’t be tempted to look up, won’t be tempted to see…

  Too often these days, the bitch-queen took Alession to her private balcony.

  A muscle in Stratos’s jaw jumped, and he unclenched his teeth. Alession had been her slave ever since she’d named him consul. He attended her day and night.

  But not for long.

  The Grand Melee was coming up, and when the victorious gladiator crested the dais, when he stood before her to receive his laurels, his dagger would find her throat.

  Stratos approached the ring of novices, where Lucan practiced passes with his gladius. The gladiator victorious. And he does not even know yet.

  A thrill raced low through Stratos’s belly. The heady thought of placing his assassin so close to the blind Empress, of murdering her in cold blood…

  Alession would rule, then, and he would finally know Stratos’s true feelings. They wouldn’t have to hide any longer. That one kiss, that one fuck in the baths, Alession peeling back Stratos’s tunic to lave his nipples with kisses—Stratos grew hard with the remembrance of it—Alession’s cock, thick and sleek, pounding into him without mercy.

  There were nights Stratos still awoke with the sore feeling in his thighs and his ass, with the sensual trickle of Alession’s hot cum running down his thighs.

  We are meant to be.

  But, for now, he would be patient, bide his time.

  He strode toward the novices. On days like today, when there was no Spectacle, no games or Diversions, the Empress’s Theatre was almost peaceful. The huge coliseum stood empty, rising to the hot, cloudless sky, an impressive edifice of ivory columns and the statues of the seven gods. Stratos always reveled to see the Doomsayer, Master of Souls, King of UnderRealm, rising taller than the EverStar, Elysia, in her golden chariot.

  Even the blades of the Hail had been polished and glinted in the sunlight.

  The Empress ordered them cleaned after every Spectacle. Apparently, she did not want anyone dying of complications to their wounds. No, not when their lives could serve as entertainment for plebes and Citizens alike.

  His gaze traveled over the coats of arms of the seven houses—Lucia, Menelaus, Actaeon, Zaerus, Aeschylus, Priassin, and his own, Vulpinius. Some of their members could be his natural brothers or sisters, his natural parents, though both his mother and father were likely of an age to have passed into shadow of UnderRealm. He had no way of knowing.

  Only the Oracles knew, and they never spoke their secrets.

  Stratos snorted. It should have been easy to find his natural family. He was the only blond in the sea of brunets that was House Vulpinius. For a moment, he pictured Alession leaning over him, his black hair tousled and sweaty, that devilish smile and the glint in his ice-blue eyes… The glint that had promised Stratos everything.

  And yet he gives me nothing.

  He risked a squinting glance at the Empress’s balcony. The curtains were drawn. Stratos could only wonder at the depravities she ordered in her private chambers. Everyone knew that without her sight, her needs were amplified.

  Fight or fuck. Those were her rules.

  He looked up at the white clouds. A clear day, temperate for the desert region, the breeze giving the novices on these burning sands a modicum of relief. Whatever the Empress’s needs, someone must have been meeting them.

  Not Alession. Of course not. The consul was clear about his interest in men only. But he is ambitious. And preposterous though it was, Stratos feared the day would come where Alession would return to him smelling of her. Smelling of sex and exotic perfume and coitus with a woman.

  A stone slipped into his sandal, and he walked despite it, ignoring the stabbing pain in his foot. The shouts of the novices retook his attention. Lucan. Now Lucan Vulpinius. Gladiators had no choice which house purchased them. Stratos knew Alession had paid a hefty sum for the boy—ten aureus crowns—and had even enslaved him for Stratos.

  As a toy, nothing more.

  Did Alession think to distract him with lesser fare? No. He loves me. He just isn’t free to pursue me. Because of her.

  A flash of guilt stole into Stratos. He does not know I mean to kill his ladylove with his own gladiator. The thought was intoxicating, but he kept the thrill off his face as he stopped at the edge of the ring.

  Several of the novices glanced over. More than one lingered on Stratos’s dirty-blond hair, his light-hued eyes, corded biceps. He crossed his arms to afford them a better look. After all, there was no harm in ogling. He rather liked their attention.

  Lucan’s eyes were wary, but he put up his gladius and came to Stratos’s side. The boy looked peaked, as though he hadn’t slept. Stratos pushed back the boy’s hair—golden like wheat, where Stratos’s was the hue of hay—and looked at his teeth, as though he were a prize horse or piece of livestock.

  Lucan’s eyes rolled in fear, and he pulled away.

  “I’ll make sure the servants bring you an extra allotment of oranges,” Stratos said. “I don’t like the look of those gums.”

  Lucan blushed.

  Stratos patted his arm. Poor child. As though any of this was his fault. Lucan was just a convenient scapegoat. Stratos noticed the boy looking around. “What is it?”

  Lucan toed the ground.

  Stratos lost patience. “What?” he said, perhaps a bit too harshly.

  “Hektor,” the boy blurted. “Where is Hektor Actaeon? I thought he would be training me.”

  “Oh, he will.” Stratos smiled, but it tasted bitter on his lips.

  Hektor Actaeon, primus palus, sought after as both instructor and lover. He had once served Stratos well, if not willingly. A delicious slice of ass in the days when Stratos simply needed to forget about his woes. A delicious slice of ass and a competent assassin. Too bad he’d been disqualified in the Grand Melee three years ago. He might have otherwise earned his freedom.

  That thought warmed Stratos to his toes. He had enjoyed watching the great Hektor Actaeon laid low.

  He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He’ll attend to you when he’s done claiming his prize.” Gently, he pushed the boy back into the ring of novices.

  Hektor Actaeon. Admittedly, Stratos had used him a little too hard.

  Alession’s slavecraft had broken once Hektor had done the deed, the Ebon brand bleeding into a scar as the spell was used up. No matter. He’d killed the man who’d known the truth about Stratos. Young Leander had held such promise, and yet, he’d seen Stratos and Alession in the bath that night. Now he was dead and couldn’t use his secrets against either of them.

  As for Hektor Actaeon…

  I’ll use him to train the man who will kill him. And the Empress.

  Chapter Three

  INTRODUCTIONS

  House Vulpinius,

  Known to enslave their gladiators

  To incite them to fight

  Beyond the scope of mortal men

  —Bann Ali, battle recorder for the Empress’s Grand Theatre

  Whack! The butt end of the longspear cracked against Lucan’s shoulder, knocking him down. Slowly, he regained his feet, glaring balefully at his erstwhile opponent.

  Hektor Actaeon regarded him with sky-blue eyes and a conviction that never wavered. He swung again, whipping the longspear about like a staff.

  Lucan ducked, his heart pounding in pride at his quickness. Too late, he felt the haft of the weapon against the backs of his legs.

  “Ungh!” Lucan crum
pled, his thighs numb and aching. He winced as he rolled on the hot sands.

  “Look lively,” Hektor ordered, stepping in. “And try not to roll about like a hog wallowing in mud. On Spectacle days, the Empress has ground glass sifted in with the sand. It will be both hot and sharp.”

  His chest heaving, Lucan rose painfully. He was too winded to retort, and he didn’t dare glower at Hektor again, but he harbored thoughts of beating the man with a stick while he slept.

  As always, Stratos watched, standing off to one side, a finger at his lips as though to silence secrets. His expression was cold, hard to read. The chill of it caused Lucan to blush. For his new owner to think he wasn’t prepared, to think he wasn’t good—

  He barely evaded a pass with the longspear and leaped back to avoid being caught by the gleaming tip.

  Then again, this was Hektor Actaeon, champion gladiator and primus palus. Lucan had survived ten seconds. He was happy to just be standing.

  He dodged the next swing and cast in with his net. Too soon, too eager. Easily, Hektor stepped back, and the net fell short, the weights kicking up puffs of sand.

  “A poor cast.” Hektor’s tone was even and without reproach, but that only increased Lucan’s embarrassment.

  If he’d only yell at me. Shout. Get angry.

  Why was Hektor Actaeon unlike any master trainer Lucan had ever seen? Normally, the trainers railed at their students, bullied them, and in some cases, even beat them with canes. But Hektor… Hektor was mild. Were there places besides the arena where he showed his passion, his fierceness? Lucan could not keep from imaging him lounging in bed, disdaining the sheets, his cock stiff and full.

  Unwittingly, Lucan licked his lips. His own shaft hardened, and he angled his body quickly, hoping no one had seen.

  Hektor appeared unaffected. And Stratos… Lucan glanced back to the quaestor, but his face was dark as he watched, his gaze fixed on Hektor. Then his pallid, cold eyes flicked to Lucan.

  A spasm of pain tore through Lucan’s left pectoral, where Alession had woven his dark spell into Lucan’s flesh. He cried out, falling to one knee. His fingers dug at his skin, the Ebon writhing beneath it like burrowing maggots. Lucan was suddenly breathless. Fear and shame burned through the pain.

  Hektor must think me weak.

  “Lucan.” The voice was gentle, rich with concern. When Lucan looked up, it was directly into Hektor Actaeon’s deep blue eyes. The man offered Lucan a hand up, and Lucan took it, grateful for the stoicism of gladiators. Hektor would not ask what had happened.

  “Back to practice,” he said and nudged Lucan toward his fallen net.

  Even that casual touch burned Lucan hotter than any brand. He felt it linger on his skin, an indelible mark, as though Hektor had claimed him for his own.

  Desire flamed across his cheeks. Dear Rilrune in Oversky, let him not see!

  They sparred for what seemed an eternity, until Lucan’s arms were rubbery and he could no longer cast his net, until his legs trembled and his entire body burned with the fire of fatigue. Hektor pushed him, putting him through his paces like a bestiarius would a rare beast in front of a crowd.

  Before slaughtering it.

  Finally, Stratos seemed to grow bored of the constant repetition and took his leave. After that, Hektor relaxed visibly. He went easier on Lucan but still worked him hard, urging him past the limits of his endurance.

  But he seemed kinder in Stratos’s absence.

  And just when Lucan felt he would stumble, fall into the sand, and never get up—

  “That’s enough for today.” Hektor lowered his shield. He turned and walked toward the shaded portico, to where small tables and chairs had been set out for the fighters. He gestured as he went, and one of the houseboys ran off to the interior of the theatre.

  Lucan followed the primus palus.

  “Come.” Hektor placed his longspear and shield on a rack strewn with other fighters’ weapons. He reached for Lucan to hand him the trident.

  Lucan complied, their sweaty fingers brushing for the briefest moment. He felt his blush intensify, and hoped Hektor would think him sun-addled rather than captivated. Still, he ducked his head.

  “Sit.” Hektor indicated a chair and then dropped into his, resting his corded biceps on the table. All around them, gladiators and their trainers reclined, taking wine and relaxation while others toiled out in the hot sun. The whipping slap of wood on flesh echoed across the amphitheatre as the trainers used their canes to inspire greater ferocity in their fighters.

  Lucan noticed that Hektor Actaeon carried no cane. Mayhap he had other ways to inspire his novices. Stop it, Lucan.

  The houseboy returned, a decanter of wine on his shoulder and two mugs dangling from tanned fingers. He set the cups before them on the table and poured. The wine was a rich red summer-wine, its scent fruity and heady. To Lucan, it seemed an extravagance. House Pineus had not been able to afford such luxuries, its dwindling stable of fighters subsisting on overfermented beer.

  “A glorious death,” Hektor said, raising his cup.

  Lucan took up his own mug and tried not to gulp down the warm wine. This, perhaps, was even harder than sparring against the great primus palus. He forced himself to set the mug down after a few long pulls.

  “Gratitude,” he said by way of thanks, but Hektor wasn’t meeting his gaze.

  Hektor was looking at Lucan’s chest, his sky-blue eyes storming over as he stared.

  The Ebon.

  Reflexively, Lucan brought his hand up, to hide the brand, to protect it. But there was nothing there. The strange dark mark had healed, leaving not even a scar.

  He shrank back from the memory of the slaver-consul plowing him, carving into him. Now that the terror had faded, now that the dark spell seemed only a memory, Lucan could not help but revel in the memory of the rough handling. The nails scraping on his scalp as he took the slaver’s cock, the feel of the slaver’s dick hard and rooting in his ass.

  Hektor was staring right at Lucan’s pectoral, where Alession had carved the dark mark.

  Somehow, Lucan found shame in it. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Hektor shook his head so hard his black ponytail swayed across his shoulders.

  Lucan watched the sensual swing of that luxurious hair, and suddenly he wanted to run his fingers through it. Hair of that length was a rarity here in the desert heat of Arena, not to mention a liability in combat. Long hair could foul a helm and even provide an opponent with an easy target to grapple. It could mean a swift death, and all for the sake of vanity.

  Even Lucan, whose golden good looks were a large part of his crowd appeal, kept his hair barely at his shoulders.

  Hektor Actaeon didn’t look vain, though. Oh, he preened and posed for the screaming masses. What gladiator didn’t? Each victory brought with it fame, fortune, and a higher chance at receiving the Mercy should Viltheleon, Goddess of Luck, favor another on the scorching sands of the theatre.

  Lucan licked his lips. I’m staring. He realized it only as Hektor raised one dark eyebrow, an amused grin lilting on his full lips. Suddenly, Lucan felt heady, drunk. In Arena, the wines were strong and water was too precious a resource to waste diluting them.

  “I…was…” He faltered. “Your hair.”

  Surprise—a disturbed look—passed over Hektor’s face. His hand tightened on his cup and he put it down, the sharp crack on the wooden table making Lucan jump. Without another word, the primus palus stood and moved to the rack. He took his shield and longspear.

  Lucan hurried to his side and pulled down his own weapons. Had he said something wrong? He stole a sidelong glance at Hektor.

  The man caught him. “What about my hair?” There was a wariness in his voice.

  “It’s…long,” Lucan said, frustration rising within him.

  Surely Hektor had to realize the length was odd for a gladiator—dangerous. Then again, he was the primus palus. He defeated other men with ease and style. Why should he not be afforded every luxur
y? The Empress’s favored, he ate only the best food, lived in lush quarters, with teams of healers and leeches to care for his health and to massage his tired muscles. He had wine, delicacies, women brought to him—or men, if he so chose.

  Long hair would seem to be the least of these luxuries. Lucan could not help imagining that black mane loose and flowing over Hektor’s broad shoulders.

  Hektor reached back to his ponytail and tightened the thong that held it in place. His sky-blue eyes were sober. “I’ve grown it out in memory of someone… Someone dear to me.”

  “Where is he now?” It was an innocent question, but Lucan regretted it immediately.

  “Dead.” Hektor’s eyes were dim. “He’s dead.” He piled his weapons into Lucan’s arms and walked away, toward the spiraling stairwells that would lead them back to House Vulpinius.

  Lucan stood there, dumbfounded, looking at Hektor Actaeon’s back. Feeling twice a fool.

  HEKTOR STRODE AWAY, his anger festooning within him, an uncontrolled rage he had fought for so long. By the flowering Abyss! One day and the kid had already struck a nerve, carved a chink in Hektor’s impenetrable armor, and Hektor hated seeming weak. The fact that he might have twitched, might have shown a moment’s worth of true emotion, fueled his fury.

  He paused at the archway to the stairwells. Irritated, he threw a glance over his shoulder at Lucan. The boy—Why do I keep calling him that? Lucan was clearly a young man, strapping and handsome with his golden features—struggled on behind, doing a fair job of carrying the weapons Hektor had piled on him.

  He thought to turn back and help his student, but didn’t. The extra training would serve Lucan well in the arena, when it was only sheer rage and willpower that kept death at bay.

  Instead, Hektor edged his voice in threat. “And don’t drop my shield, or you’ll end up at the whipping post.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lucan’s words were laced with sarcasm.

  Unwitting, a smile twitched at Hektor’s lips, but he shut it down. He shouldn’t treat the boy so gently. He’d seen Stratos lurking about, watching his newest charge.

  Lucan was a Vulpinius now and likely a slave to the quaestor himself.