Chapter 19 – The Games
Jonathan was the only thracian among the newest gladiators from the House of Pullus. The three other recruits had trained as murmillos and a retiarius, a net and trident fighter. The murmillos were so heavily armored and carried such large shields, Jonathan wondered how he could possibly win if paired against one when the en masse fighting began. He would have to. Nessa’s life depended on it.
He tightened the leather cords of the wrap sheathing his sword arm. He rechecked the fastening on his metal leg grieves. The protection they would offer his legs that his shield could not was worth the extra weight. His bronze helmet with its grass-colored plumes fit well, but the grates in the faceplate impaired his vision. It would have helped to have been allowed to practice in it, at least once. Clovis entered with several slaves who began handing out weapons. Jonathan grasped the handle of the curved sword that marked a thracian gladiator, surprised to find it of a similar weight to his wooden training sword.
Clovis moved through them, checking buckles and adjusting armor. “When you take the sand, all your training will be forgotten.” He turned slowly, surveying each of the men he’d trained. “Do not fear this. Your muscle and bone will remember.” He took a sword from a slave, turning it so the rays of sunlight coming through the gate of life glittered along the steel blade. He thrust the tip into the hard-packed earthen floor and the hilt swayed like a young olive tree in the wind.
“You fight to bring honor to the House of Pullus.” Clovis picked up the retarius’ net and handed it to the gladiator. “And to yourselves.” He picked up Jonathan’s helmet and extended it to him, meeting his gaze. “And for those you hold dear.”
Jonathan took the helmet and pulled it on. It was all the reply he could give.
Clovis plucked the sword from the ground and raised it high. “Pullus!”
The men raised their weapons in salute, all but Jonathan. Two slaves approached the gate from within the arena. The morning animal hunts and midday executions were finished. The games could begin. Clovis stood like a general surveying his legion as Jonathan lined up with the other men to take the sand.
Stepping from the shadows, the bright sunlight overwhelmed him as much as the sudden screams of the crowd. A referee wearing a blood-splattered tunic pointed his pugil stick at a spot on the wall Jonathan was to occupy. A second group of gladiators emerged from the gate behind them, fighters from another school. The referee directed those men to their places. A murmillo approached him, and Jonathan’s stomach dropped. The man’s shield reached from his chin to his knees and curved around him. It was practically a wall.
The gladiator assumed opening position, as did Jonathan, holding his much smaller shield close and his shorter sword ready. From the corner of his vision, the referee raised the stick and held it between him and his opponent. The crowd fell silent in expectation.
“Violente!” The stick slashed toward the sky as the referee jumped back.
Jonathan took the murmillo’s first blow on his shield as the screaming roar of the crowd erupted. Clovis had been right. You forget everything, but the body does not. The blows were not as well placed as Tao’s, or as physical as Seppios’, but they were fast, even under the weight of so much armor. And there were many. Jonathan could only defend, giving ground in circles while trying to avoid the other fights going on all around him. He backed too close to a retarius, and the weights at the end of the gladiator’s throwing net slammed Jonathan’s back.
The momentary distraction gave the murmillo an opening. Jonathan’s leg erupted in pain from a solid hit above his grieve. He didn’t need to check to know the murmillo had drawn blood. It stained the man’s sword.
The murmillo swung his sword again, and Jonathan met it with his shield. This time he didn’t resist the blow. He let the momentum push his shield against his body and carry him around his opponent. He spun tight, dropping the shield and swinging his sword through the turn, opening a long and deep gash on the murmillo’s back.
Roars of approval from the crowd surrounding them washed over the sand. Grasping the sword with both hands, Jonathan focused his strength on holding his ground when the murmillo’s blade fell against his own. His opponent’s size and weight put Jonathan at a disadvantage in a contest of pure strength, but Jonathan pictured Nessa’s face and his shaking arms held fast.
The murmillo backed away. Jonathan sucked a deep breath of warm air from the growing heat inside his helmet. But the murmillo charged, the retreat having been a trap. Before Jonathan could tuck and roll toward his discarded shield, his opponent’s shield struck the center of his unprotected chest like a battering ram. He lost his footing in the churned sand and fell hard on his back.
Don’t panic. He rolled sideways and missed the downward slice of his opponent’s sword. He scanned the arena while getting to his feet. They were the only pair still fighting. The murmillo’s sword caught him on his shield arm, the one not bound in padding. He saw and felt it, and it was deep. He’d lost focus for a mere second and now would have to attack hard and fast.
They both bled now, and he must wear down the murmillo first. Use the man’s weighty armor and heavy shield against him.
Jonathan fought on, ignoring the searing pain when he moved his arm to block blows with only his sword. Blood from the gash on his leg soaked the padding between his leg and metal grieve. The sodden cloth slid down his skin to bunch between the straps holding them in place. His arm was failing, covered in red and beginning to shake, but he fought on.
The energy of the crowd as they cheered the battle intensified. Other gladiators from his house shouted his name from their places on the wall. Jonathan fed on their encouragement like a starving lion with a fresh kill, letting the praise and the pulse of the crowd renew his strength as he continued to fight.
The murmillo’s blows came in slower intervals, still dangerous, but not as heavy as before. Jonathan had worked their fight near his shield, and recovered it from the sand. He threw his shoulder down and plowed into the murmillo’s waiting shield. When the murmillo braced against him, Jonathan raised his smaller shield and slammed it into the side of the man’s helmet with every bit of strength that remained. The boom thundered through the air and the murmillo swayed.
Jonathan thrust his curved sword into the man’s shoulder and jumped back, still gripping his sword and shield. From the blood on the metal, he’d gone deep. The murmillo struggled to hold his heavy shield in place. Blood ran from the wound Jonathan had inflicted.
Now. He needed to attack the opening now. Knock the man down and force him to give the missio in surrender.
Jonathan surged forward, but his legs wouldn’t obey. They shook with the effort to remain standing. He gasped inside his helmet but there was only hot, sweat-tainted air. He put his sword to the sand and leaned on it, waiting for the murmillo to charge him.
He’d failed her.
But the man stood wavering like a long stalk of wheat in a strong wind.
The crowd cheered louder than ever. The murmillo crumpled to his knees, sword and shield falling to the sand. He swayed forward, revealing the long gash Jonathan’s sword had opened. A back scarred by whips, like his own. The man raised two fingers toward the pulvis, asking to be spared.
Jonathan struggled to keep on his feet, the inferno of his helmet worsening as he panted. Through the eyeholes, the magistrate he’d humiliated Caius in front of rose and surveyed the crowd. Jonathan’s heart pounded so hard he could hear the blood rushing in his ears.
Please. Please spare him.
The magistrate extended his hand, and gave the sign for life. Missio granted. That was the last thing Jonathan saw before his world went black.
Clovis watched slaves rake Jonathan’s blood beneath the sand, preparing the arena for the next fight. Amadi would fight a retarius from a rival ludis. He’d trained Amadi two years ago, though it seemed longer. It didn’t matter. No good came of growing attached to any of them. Strangers buried easier than
friends.
Caius’ gaze lingered on the far side of the arena. “Victors aren’t usually carried out the gate of life. What did you make of his fight?”
Through years of practice, Clovis kept his expression emotionless. “I think he fights as a man terrified of losing and not as one who seeks victory.”
“The outcome is the same.”
If Clovis could explain the difference, and there was one, Caius wouldn’t relent. He’d found the fastest way to control Jonathan and would now waste him as he had so many others.
“I told you we’d make a gladiator of him, Clovis, and so we have. I must return to the pulvis with the magistrate and that dog Lucius. He made a bet with me halfway through the fighting his murmillo would beat my thracian.” Caius laughed. “It’s a good thing Jonathan won. I can’t afford to lose anymore. We must do well today.”
“Your gladiators will give their all for you, my lord, as always.” Clovis bowed low to avoid saying anymore. Then he hastened to check on their men. Something Caius himself should do if he had any respect for them at all.
In the saniarium, slaves scurried about collecting armor and weapons. Quintus and the other school’s medicus saw to their gladiators, resting on benches and tables filling one side of the chamber. Quintus sewed a puncture wound on Taven’s arm. The young gladiator was the smallest in stature of their new gladiators, but had been the first to claim victory in the en masse fight. Clovis approached them, careful to stay out of Quintus’ torch light. “How are they?”
“Nothing to worry me yet, except for Jonathan.”
The young lion killer lay still on a table in the corner of the chamber. Nessa hovered over him, dabbing sand from his skin with a wet cloth. Quintus had already bound the wound on his arm and his leg.
“He hasn’t awakened?”
“No.” Quintus pulled the horsehair through again with his fishbone needle. “Was he struck in the helmet or in the head?”
“Not that I recall, but I couldn’t watch all of them at once. It may be battle fatigue. His fight lasted much longer than expected, and he’s not in peak form yet.”
“The crowd sounded pleased. I thought the ceiling would collapse on us all for a moment,” Quintus said.
Clovis held his tongue out of respect for Quintus, who was Roman by birth. With few exceptions, Quintus being one of them, all Romans were the same. The larger the crowd, the deeper their thirst ran for blood and pleasure.
Quintus wiped his hands with a towel and handed a cup of wine to Taven. “Nessa and I will be ready for the others. Hopefully we will greet the night with none to mourn.”
Clovis watched Nessa with Jonathan. She’d never looked up since he entered, still working to remove every bit of dried blood and sand from Jonathan’s skin. “Tend the other men yourself when they arrive, if you can. Make certain Nessa is with Jonathan when he wakes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve asked it.”
Whatever ailed their gladiator, seeing her face when he first opened his eyes would do more for him than any of Quintus’ herbs and treatments.
Jonathan woke to the one person he most wanted to see. Smiling—alive and unharmed—standing over him in whatever this large chamber was.
“Greetings.” Nessa placed her hand on his arm, above a linen binding.
He had another above his left knee where the murmillo had gotten past him. Ten fingers Ten toes. No aching skull for a change. Hopefully the man he’d defeated would recover as well. “I’m still in one piece.”
“A miracle, I know.”
Miracle? He’d killed a lion with a stick. He’d been trained by a champion. And he was about to tell her so when her face crinkled in mischief. She’d been teasing him.
“You jest?” he said.
“Of course. I knew you would win.”
Her confidence swelled his pride. Hopefully Tao and Clovis were proud of him too. As for Caius, he could—
“Now that you’re awake, drink this.” She handed him a cup of herbed wine and helped him sit up. Ah. He hadn’t come out of that as unscathed as he thought. Opposite him, Seppios sat on a table while Quintus tended a wound on his lower leg.
Seppios looked up and scowled. “You cost me ten sesterces, lion killer. I wagered against you.”
“Nessa could have told you I was going to win.” Jonathan grinned at her but she raised her hand, cupped but empty, toward her mouth. He obeyed and drank the mix she’d given him. The herbs in the wine were ground so smooth he could taste them, but no flakes stuck on his tongue or teeth.
“God told me you were going to win. I asked Him for a sign this morning.”
Jonathan sighed. Everything always came back to God for Nessa. It had been this sign, not her confidence in him after all.
“What does your God tell you of my chances in the next games, Nessa?” Seppios asked.
“I would not tell you even if I knew. You would only use it to wager.”
“Enough, all of you.” Quintus finished the knot in Seppios’ dressing. “You’ll wake Amadi.”
Jonathan turned to the table on his other side. Amadi lay asleep or unconscious, his upper thigh heavily bound with linen. He hoped that was Quintus’ work.
“I’m not asleep.” Amadi spoke but his eyes remained closed. “I’m resting up for tonight when Caius sends my reward.”
Seppios laughed. “Speaking of rewards, did you see how furious Festus was when that retarius finally made him yield? I’ve never seen Festus raise two fingers. I’ll not soon let him live that down.” His laughter halted. “Filthy Roman,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
If ever there had been a man born to be a gladiator, it was Seppios. He was either asleep, or craving a fight.
“Leave him alone,” Amadi said from his table, still with his eyes closed. “It’s bad enough he’ll have to hear us enjoying our women through the cell walls while he sits alone.”
Nessa frowned even as she blushed and fidgeted with the wrap on Jonathan’s upper arm.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered.
“You won your fight. You will be rewarded too.” Her glance darted to his eyes, then away as the red in her cheeks deepened.
Did that bother her because of her beliefs, or because it would make her jealous?
Seppios slid down from the wooden table and stretched his arms over his head. There were bruises on the inside of his arm, where the leather straps of his armored sleeve would have been. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman any better than you do a sword, Amadi.”
“All right you two,” Quintus said. “Since you’re feeling so good, go back to the holding area. You might be in time for Tao to show you how to win without getting injured.”
Amadi and Seppios grumbled at this, but Quintus whipped at them with a cloth like they were sheep until they left.
“As for you.” Quintus approached him. “Give me your arm.”
Jonathan extended it and Quintus felt the skin of his wrist. After a moment, the chubby hand released him. “You’re well enough to join them if you want to see the last match. Tao is very impressive in the arena.”
Not as impressive as feasting on Nessa’s smile and having her gentle touch soothe him. “I’ve fought Tao before.”
She and Quintus exchanged a look he didn’t understand.
Quintus crossed his arms over the expanse of his middle and shook his head. “No, you have never fought Tao. You have sparred with Tao. You have trained with Tao. But you have never fought Tao.”
Nessa’s hand tightened on his arm. “I pray you never have to.”
“Me too.” Quintus frowned and rubbed the top of his bald head. “That would be a real bloodbath, and I’ve brought you back from the dead once already.”
“God returned Jonathan to this life, Quintus, though He chose you as His instrument.” Quintus frowned but didn’t say anything. Jonathan wanted to laugh, because he knew exactly how she’d made him feel. Although she gave Quintus some credit for his skil
l, which is more than she’d given him.
A slave charged into the chamber, and two guards promptly rushed from the gate of life and grabbed him by the arms.
“I need the physician.” The slave struggled as the guards jerked him toward the other opening.
“It’s all right. He’s not armed,” Quintus said.
The guards let the young man go, and he straightened his tunic and bowed to Quintus.
“Who are you?”
“Jonathan, my lord, slave to Lucius Garus. Our physician begs your help to save one of our men.”
“Tell Alexander I will come at once.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The slave ran off as fast as he had come.
“Come, Nessa. I’m certain Tao’s defeated opponent will need Alexander and me both, and your prayers to your unseen God.” Quintus moved to gather his leather bundle of instruments and Nessa turned to follow.
Jonathan grabbed the edge of her tunic sleeve. “That slave had my name.”
“It’s not uncommon among my people, though not as common as David.” Nessa smiled at him and shouldered Quintus’ bag of herbs and linen.
“Won’t Caius be angry you’re helping his rival?” Jonathan didn’t mind if Quintus left, but time with Nessa was a precious rarity.
Quintus tucked his leather roll under his arm and drew up to his full height. “I took an oath to heal at the Asklepian temple when I became a physician. That is what I do.” He started toward the passage, but Nessa lingered.
“He’ll be angry when he finds out,” she said, her voice low as her smile spread. “All the more reason I’m glad we’re going.”
She was the most baffling person he had ever known. “What about your forgiveness?”
“I forgave him. That doesn’t mean I like him.”
She hurried away, glancing back before disappearing down the corridor. That fire within her was incredible.
He leaned up on his elbows to examine his bound arm and thigh, then the bruises on his chest and legs. He’d endure much more, and continue to inflict in kind, to protect that fire.
Chasing the Lion Page 16