Jonathan eased back flat on the cushion. It hurt his back but felt good to relax too. She put her palm to his forehead, the same way his mother would check for the heat of fever anytime he sneezed as a child. He closed his eyes. She didn’t lift her hand, but instead swept his hair back toward the crown of his head. Over and over. He opened his eyes, and an indefinable expression covered her face. He blinked and it was gone, her usual warm smile in place.
“Less thinking, too. Just rest.” She pulled the fur up to cover his chest and began singing that song again. Through the now familiar sounds of men learning how to kill and be killed, her touch and her soft voice lulled his exhausted mind and body to sleep.
Chapter 13 – Choices
The days passed and moving became less painful. Simple tasks like feeding himself required less effort. With Quintus gone, Nessa experimented with a paste she made. Heavy and cold like mud, it stank but took the pain away better than the opium she still sprinkled in his wine. She said it would close the wounds faster, and Quintus could take the pins out soon. Jonathan had to take her at her word. He still hadn’t seen his back but wasn’t sure he wanted to after seeing his face.
He’d asked for a polished metal, a good knife, and oil that he might shave. She’d handed him a gleaming bronze disc the size of a bowl, and he raised it to see himself. The visage staring back at him sent a shiver of fear through him. It wasn’t the yellow and green of the fading bruises or the beard he’d never seen himself in before. Instead it was the hardness. The anger.
Manius stared back at him from the metal.
Jonathan closed his eyes and shook his head to try to clear it. Then he gazed into the metal again.
Still there.
He brought the metal closer, almost to his nose, where he could only see his eyes. Green, like his mother’s.
I’m nothing like him.
Nessa held the metal for him while he shaved, humming that song he’d come to enjoy as much as the faint scent of honey that clung to her. He looked and felt more himself when he finished. Even with the hardness permanently etched in his eyes.
He saw one other gladiator in that time—a short, stocky man called Amadi. Nessa spent a long time massaging the thigh the man had injured in training and then spreading her paste on it. Jonathan didn’t like seeing her laugh with him. Not at all. When the man finally left, Jonathan hoped he wouldn’t come back.
But this morning, she was the one who hadn’t come back. Not only was she missing, but so were the customary sounds of training. A servant he’d never seen before entered at midday meal but carried only a single plate.
“Where is Nessa?”
The man ignored him, so Jonathan tried again in Latin instead of Greek. “Where is Nessa?”
Still no answer. He was either deaf or indifferent. Jonathan rose and covered the short distance to the table where his plate had been left. He felt much stronger today. The previous day he’d spent stretching, taking short walks about the room, and receiving a long massage from another slave that had done marvels for his arms and legs. He had protested the massage but Nessa insisted. As she promised, it had taken the stiffness from his muscles and joints.
He ventured toward the doorway after selecting a pear. It was overripe, the flesh softer than it should be, but he’d never been selective about food. A trait learned in poverty he never lost, even in the bounty of his father’s house. He pulled the sheet door back to find a guard posted outside, as expected. They’d been switching off at routine intervals for days.
“Back inside, slave,” the man said gruffly.
Jonathan eyed the gladius slung at the man’s waist and the spear he held like a staff and decided to comply. That fight was coming—but not yet.
He finished his pear and had a piece of bread almost in his mouth when a new slave came in carrying sandals, followed by the guard. “Put these on. Caius is ready for you.”
He set the bread down to take the shoes. Anxiety battered his resolve as he laced them to his feet. He had hoped to see her one last time. He took one last look at the room before following the slave. The guard trailed him as they passed through a long corridor Jonathan didn’t remember.
It ended in an open courtyard. Men in wide leather belts and loincloths lined one side, Amadi and Seppios among them. Near the group, but not part of it, stood a tall, muscular, blond man with a sword at his belt and a whip in his hand. His iron gaze fell upon Jonathan. That was hardness. A lifetime of it.
Chained to a wall behind him hung a man whose back had been laid open, probably by the whip in the blond man’s hand. How had he not heard the man’s screams? Probably because they beat him senseless before whipping him, by the purple marks all over the man’s face and neck.
Never again.
The slave Jonathan followed veered off, and the guard behind him used his spear to point Jonathan toward a group in the center of the yard. Ten or twelve men stood gathered, wearing simple slave dress. A few wore chains. One in a tunic and fine toga stood out like a stallion in a herd of pigs. Jonathan moved toward the rear of the group but searched the people watching them for that round face full of light—one last glimpse of her before the end.
Beneath a balcony across from them a large wooden door opened. Caius Pullus emerged in a tunic and toga fit for an emperor. He strode toward Jonathan and his group before stopping beside the blond man with the whip.
“I am Caius Pullus, lanista to the gods themselves. If you are stronger than you know, you might one day be worthy to call yourself a gladiator.”
The lanista paused to look each of them over in turn. “If you survive the training and pass the final test, you will be given my mark and join the gladiators. Those of you who do not will be sold. Slave or contract, I make no distinction. So for the freeman among you choosing this life for the next three years, do so with that knowledge. I am looking for one thing and one thing only. Champions. Anything less is a waste of coin.”
Men like him were all the same—bent on greed. Jonathan spat at the ground at his feet.
“Clovis is my right hand.” Caius gestured to the tall blond man who had the whip and sword at his belt. “Some of you will break under the weight of his instruction. Others will flourish. Learn all you can from him. My reputation as a lanista and your very lives depend upon it.”
Clovis stepped forward. “You will now come two at a time, and swear the gladiator oath to our master, Lord Caius. In doing so, you take control of your own destiny. Some of you for the first time.”
The man in the toga and another man stepped forward. Both sank to one knee with their fist to their chest and repeated Clovis’ words. Two by two they went. Some eagerly, some reluctantly, five pairs in all. Jonathan and the trembling slave beside him remained. Clovis motioned them forward. Jonathan remained rooted, as did the slave beside him, who’d begun to weep.
“You receive the sword either way,” Clovis said. “Give the oath and it’s placed in your hand. Do not and it goes in your neck.”
A guard stepped forward from the shadow of the balcony and drew his sword. The action emboldened Jonathan. It crippled the weeping man beside him, who dissolved into a heap of rattling chain.
Jonathan stared in defiance at Clovis, then Caius. The cords of the lanista’s neck stood out while Jonathan channeled every rebellious thought he’d ever had into the gaze he kept leveled at the lanista. In the corner of his vision, he saw the guard move behind the slave and his sword rise. The man screamed as the sword flashed down. The courtyard fell silent and the shape of the guard disappeared behind him. He kept his gaze on Caius, a man so like Manius and Valentina he now embodied Jonathan’s hatred for all three of them.
No more whips. No more chains. No more feeling like a caged animal instead of a man. He could go to his knee to make the killing thrust clean as the slave’s had been. But he didn’t. He would die on his feet. Not his knees.
Caius held a hand high to still the guard ready to execute him. “Quintus assured me you had th
e strongest will to survive of anyone he has ever seen. The ungratefulness you show by throwing your life away after I spent so much coin to save it is insulting.”
“But I am grateful,” Jonathan said. “I’m grateful you will not profit from my death and even more so I’ve cost you something already. I know Latin. The word lanista means butcher, and I will not be sacrificed on the sand for coin. In death I am at last my own master.”
Caius’ face flooded with crimson. Jonathan heard the guard behind him shift, readying to thrust the sword straight through him. He closed his eyes, tipping his face to the sun. His life would end here, but it would end his own.
“Wait,” Caius yelled.
Jonathan opened his eyes.
A grim smile on the man’s face rocked his resolve. The lanista waved off the guard and motioned for the trainer. “Clovis, bring Brutus to the arena. Then have this master of his own fate taken to meet him there.”
Laughter rippled through the gladiators. Guards advanced all around him. They meant to make him fight anyway. Jonathan grabbed for a sword, a spear, anything so they would have to cut him down.
But it was the road from Rome all over again.
There were too many and they were too fast. He struggled but they still succeeded in chaining him. The pain in his body threatened to pull him under again as they dragged him kicking and cursing from the courtyard through a dark tunnel. The stone scouring his back turned to sand when they emerged in sunlight. The guards threw him facedown into the hot sand, pinning him to the ground. The cold metal shackles were taken from his wrists and the guards backed away. He needed to charge them again, but his back and sides had taken a beating and it hurt to breathe.
When he finally had the strength to climb to his feet, he was alone in a great expanse of sand. He didn’t recognize it as the arena at first, because he’d never seen it from the center looking out. This arena wasn’t round. The wall forming the long side gave it two distinct corners where it met the wall curving along the stands for spectators arched around it. He had no intention of fleeing this Brutus like a coward, but if he did, he’d be cornered either direction. The stands above him filled with gladiators, guards, recruits, and slaves. Still no Nessa, and for that he was glad.
The trainer approached the lower wall and tossed a short wooden pole into the sand a few paces from Jonathan. Instinct demanded he pick it up, but he fought it. His life would end his own.
Caius Pullus remained standing at the top, his arms crossed. “Slave,” he yelled. “This is my answer.”
A heavy set of hinges squealed behind him. He turned to see a gate sliding open. This was it. Gladiators were meant to make a show of killing, but Jonathan would not make a show of dying. He would have to fall on Brutus’ sword quickly. One moment of courage and—
Over the groaning metal a new sound carried. The fearsome roar crushed his resolve.
From the shadows of the gate emerged the biggest lion he had ever seen.
Brutus.
Chapter 14 – The Lion
The lion trotted toward Jonathan, mouth open and gathering speed.
Not like this.
Jonathan dove for the stick near his feet.
The lion roared and the soft booms of paws slapping sand quickened.
He grabbed the stick and turned, wielding it like a spear. The stands erupted with cheers, but he trained every sense on the open mouth and roaring lion running straight at him. He couldn’t hurl the short wooden shaft like a spear and risk missing. Not if he was to avoid a gruesome death. He bellowed a cry as loud as the lion and charged the beast as fast as his legs would move in the shifting sand. He dropped to his knee and slid low, missing the lion’s massive paw as it swung where his head had been. The stick entered the gaping mouth between the fangs and he held on, their momentum driving it deep into the lion’s throat. He clung tighter as his face slammed into the thick mane and the lion’s chest crashed into him.
The strangled gagging was deafening and the crushing weight of the lion was going to kill him. Fur filled his mouth and nose as the animal writhed. Sunlight and air reached him and he threw himself to the side, scrambling in the sand to roll free. The lion collapsed on his leg, pinning him down again.
Blood poured from the lion’s mouth in torrents, turning the sand to dark mud near Jonathan’s head. He lay panting in the hot breath of the lion where the stick still impaling it jutted from its throat.
He’d done it. He’d refused to bend to the fear, as his father taught him. He’d chased a lion and lived. He turned his head toward the stands. Clovis ran toward them, his sword already drawn. Death would come now. A quick thrust of the sword and it would all be over. My life ends my own.
Metal pierced flesh, but he felt nothing, other than the fire in his leg spreading to his back. He opened his eyes.
Clovis’ sword stood in the great cat’s side. He pulled the blade free and stepped toward Jonathan.
“Stop,” Caius shouted from the stands. “Don’t kill him.”
Clovis lowered the sword.
Guards came through the gate. Chains rattled between them.
It was never going to end.
Jonathan bellowed a scream of pure rage. Strength like he’d never known flooded his veins and he kicked and kicked at the carcass trapping his leg. The lion’s body rocked enough that his foot almost slid free. He kicked harder, sweat and sand stinging his eyes. The sandal straps broke and his foot flew free like an arrow.
He leapt to his feet and rushed Clovis. The man slipped to the side and swung his sword in an arc. Jonathan didn’t try to duck but Clovis flicked his wrist. The flat side of the blade struck Jonathan like a lightning bolt. He crumpled to the bloody sand. Nothing would move. Not his fingers or his head. Not even his tongue and the curses streaming from him wouldn’t turn to sound.
The chains were close. The guards were surrounding him. Please. Please. His body woke up and he clawed for the trainer’s leg. The man kicked him in the stomach. White spots flashed through his vision as Jonathan grabbed for the man’s sandal and caught a fistful of straps.
“Enough.” Clovis’ sword swung again.
Clovis wiped his blade clean on the lion’s fur. “Get him to a cell.”
Now that the danger had passed, Caius jumped down from the stands as he had a moment ago. “I said not to kill him.”
“He’s subdued, not dead, unlike Brutus.” Clovis sheathed his sword so forcefully he almost tore the leather casing free of his belt. Brutus’ death was as much their fault as the slave’s. Caius for not listening that this was too risky, and his for pitying the slave at the last moment and throwing him the pugil stick.
“Take him to the medicus chamber,” Caius ordered the guards who were fastening the slave into shackles.
“Nessa isn’t here. Quintus sent a messenger for her last night. Even if they both were, that slave belongs in a cell. Better yet, in the mines or the afterlife. Anywhere but this ludis.”
“No. The courage required to mock me in my own ludis, then to chase a charging lion with a stick? That kind of courage can’t be taught, Clovis. We must harness it. ”
“And if we can’t? His defiance will spread to the other men like plague.”
“Find a way.” The lanista’s tone left no arguments. “Keep two guards on him at all times. See if you can patch him up until Quintus and his little Jewess return. If not, I’ll send for Alexander.”
The guards dragged the slave away by his wrists to the barracks.
That left but one body to contend with. “What of Brutus?”
“Have him skinned. Take the pelt to the priests at the temple of Mars for a votive offering from the House of Pullus. Feed the rest of him to the others and work with the beast master to train a new leader. The cats turn as much profit as the men, and they’re better behaved.”
Clovis loathed the entire process the first time. The idea of repeating it even more. “You know what that requires.”
“I’ll see if I can bu
y some old or sick slaves at a good price. You know what the editors of the games pay for a lion that won’t cower by the doors and make the crowd angry. One that can show the others what to do.”
“I have not been away from the arena so long that I don’t remember.”
“Good. Make me a new lead lion and a new gladiator. Find a way. He may not fear death, but he clearly has some preference as to the manner. Threaten crucifixion, castration, whatever it takes.”
That was not the way, but Caius never listened. The dead lion at their feet was proof.
“Yes, my lord.”
The splitting ache in Jonathan’s head was almost an old friend. Sand covered his body and now his same bed in the medicus chamber. Back here meant they were going to patch him up again. He wanted to die. How much clearer could he be?
Two guards stood near the doorway—still no Nessa. He sat up slowly and pulled the edge of his tunic up to see what hurt the most. The lion had clawed his upper thigh. A long wound, but not deep. At least from what he could tell under the sand and drying blood. Not much damage for having survived a charging lion. Maybe he should have just let it eat him.
The trainer entered. He stopped an arm’s length away and stared at him with those cold, hard eyes. An old scar ran from his ear to his jaw. Jonathan could imagine the man’s face covered in the blue paint of the Druids as he and his countrymen charged the armies of Rome.
“I don’t understand you, slave. You act eager to die but twice now have fought to live. Explain.”
Jonathan refused to answer. He no longer took orders from anyone.
The trainer put his hands on his hips. “Try harder to speak.”
“Try harder to understand.”
One of the guards approached the bed and raised his arm to strike him.
The trainer raised an open hand and halted the guard. “I have seen many men in this place who embrace death but none quite like you. Make me understand why. If you can.”
Chasing the Lion Page 10