Chasing the Lion

by Nancy Kimball

  Blood flowed from the gash. Tao ran the back of his sword hand over his forehead and stared at the blood staining it. His gaze lifted and narrowed so much his dark eyes disappeared.

  Jonathan was about to die. He almost turned and fled. The years of conditioning, coupled with his second strength, allowed him to maintain his honor as Tao came at him with the fury of a summer storm. Quintus’ words from years ago returned—You’ve never fought Tao.

  He fought him now. His wooden sword splintered and then cracked in half as Tao struck it again with his own. Jonathan dropped the broken stump and clutched his shield in both hands. He needed to close the distance between them before Tao took his head off. He pushed in with his shield under the steady rain of blows. Suddenly Tao thrust back with his own shield and threw his sword away.

  The sight of Tao parted from his sword froze Jonathan in place. Tao’s fist struck him in the face. He felt his head snapping him off his feet and the hard-packed sand slamming into his back where he fell. Blood poured into his throat, likely from a broken nose, choking him as he squinted against the sun above.

  Applause rang out from the balcony. “Well done, Tao!”

  Leaning forward to rise with dignity was out of the question. He rolled on his side and pushed up onto all fours, rising the shameful way, like a dog. He felt warmth at his side and looked down. The new scar had opened.

  Tao still wiped at his brow and Clovis ordered them both to Quintus. Jonathan held his bleeding side with his good hand and his bloody nose with the burned one as they left the training area together. Tao’s eye was closed against the blood sheeting from the wound above his brow to edge at his chin like a swollen stream. They entered and found Quintus and Nessa discussing some black herb on cloth resting on the table between them.

  Quintus looked up and all but growled. He kicked his stool aside and made his way toward Jonathan. “That was almost healed.”

  Tao grabbed a cloth from the folded stack on the table near him and held it to his face. “You better set the lion killer’s nose before no woman will have him.”

  Nessa shot Tao a dark look as she made her way to assist Quintus. Jonathan smiled though it increased the pain in his nose. Nessa cleaned Tao’s face and applied a salve to it before he left without saying another word. Still a man of little speech.

  Jonathan thought nothing could ever be more painful than having an arm put back in joint, until Quintus set his nose. He had a new appreciation for how often Seppios endured having it done.

  Maybe it was the opium, or Nessa’s nearness, or the concern in her clear brown eyes while she helped Quintus clean and dress the spear wound again, but Jonathan ached to touch her. Quintus sat at his back, so Jonathan let the fingertips of his burned hand come to rest on the smooth skin of her elbow. She trembled, and he almost drew back, until he saw her eyes.

  There was no fear in them.

  Like a whetstone caresses the edge of a blade it sharpens, he traced the silk of her skin to her wrist. Once there, he allowed his fingertips to play in circles on the back of her hand while he watched her face. The blush he loved appeared with a vengeance, and when her mouth parted, he wanted nothing more than to taste it.

  “Nessa,” Quintus called.

  She jumped like a startled deer and caught herself on Jonathan’s thigh before he could steady her. She looked at her hands gripping his leg so near his loincloth and jerked away from him, putting her palms to her cheeks in alarm.

  He bit the inside of his lower lip to keep from grinning. Her innocence had been taken from her body, but not from her spirit. She was so beautiful.

  “Nessa, are you all right?” Quintus asked from behind him.

  “Yes.” She straightened and kept her eyes averted from his face. She took the end of the linen with trembling hands and passed it around to Quintus.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  She was anything but all right from the flush staining her cheeks and the way her chest rose and fell as rapidly as his did before battle. Her response to his touch gave him a foreign sense of power but on the tail of that, regret. She wasn’t a plaything for his amusement. She meant too much to him to treat her with anything less than the respect and honor she deserved. No matter how much he wanted to make her tremble again.

  Quintus rose and came to stand in front of him. “All done. See if you can stand easily. If not, I’ll tighten the wrap.”

  Nessa backed away, her gaze still avoiding him.

  He stood and raised his arm on his wounded side to his shoulder. The movement was uncomfortable but bearable. “Thank you. Both of you.”

  Her head came up, and he thought she might meet his gaze, but she looked toward the door. Jonathan turned and found Clovis holding the sheet back. “We travel to Rome a month from tomorrow. Well done, Jonathan.”

  “Rome!” Quintus clapped his hands and shook like an excited child about to devour a sweet cake.

  Nessa’s round face beamed with excitement.

  He was going home—to the city of his birth, the city of his father, his dead mother, and the man who shared his blood and betrayal. If Jonathan set eyes upon Manius, there would be no whip long enough, no chains heavy enough, and no cell strong enough to keep him from his vengeance.

  Chapter 24 – Going Home

  By tonight, Jonathan and the small caravan traveling under praetorian escort would reach Rome. Caesar had sent his own soldiers to see them safely to the Ludis Maximus. The nightmare of the attack that had killed Dio and made him a slave had returned the first night camped along the Via Appia, and continued unabated every time he slept. He would wake bathed in sweat between Tao and Seppios sleeping soundly beside him on their woven mats.

  A single chain joined the three of them since leaving the ludis. The links lay piled between their feet on the wood floor of the oxcart as it rolled along behind Caius and Clovis, who traveled on horseback like their guards. As often as Jonathan found an excuse, he looked back to glimpse Nessa. She would be adjusting Quintus’ sun shade in their cart, or pouring water for the guards. Two from the ludis including Luca, and eight from the emperor, all armored and armed. Something she said to Luca yesterday had made him laugh, and he tipped his helmet to her before fanning back into formation.

  Jonathan didn’t like that.

  Tao’s voice startled him. “She is the innocent.”

  Fear churned inside, but Jonathan didn’t let it reach his face as he turned toward Tao.

  The dark eyes of the champion studied him. “She is what changed you.”

  It wasn’t a question. Jonathan glanced at Seppios, who appeared to be ignoring everyone, as was his custom. It seemed Tao already knew, so Jonathan gave him a short nod. Tao dipped his chin in that way of his that said they would never speak of it again unless Jonathan did. And he wouldn’t. Nor would he risk watching her anymore.

  The next few hours passed in silence except for the occasional snort of a guard’s horse and the constant rattle of cart wheels on the cobblestone road. He told himself he wouldn’t look for it. But he did. The grove of olive trees beyond a large boulder, nearly fifty cubits from the highway. He could recall everything about that day. Meeting his father for the first time. His first chariot ride as they raced through the countryside to that very grove. Life had been so full of promise then. Before God took his mother from him and Manius stole what was left of the life he’d rebuilt without her.

  Tao’s voice startled him. “I see trees. You look as if you see death.”

  The man was more observant than an astronomer.

  Seppios chose that moment to stretch his arms high over his head, rattling the chain between them. His yawn of indifference offered Jonathan a diversion. “We bore Seppios.”

  “You do not bore me, Roman.” He shot Jonathan a petulant glare. “Or should I say, the back of your head does not.”

  Tao laughed, and Jonathan swore silently. He might as well have stood up and called out to Nessa the last four days.<
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  “Besides.” Seppios stretched again and arched his back. “I dream of crossing blades with Hulderic.”

  The gladiator Quintus had warned of. The one the guards from Rome told stories of over their cooking fire. “What do you know of him?”

  “He’s my wooden sword. Caius is too greedy to ever free any of us. But the emperor—” The wheel of the cart hit a deep break in the stone highway, rattling their chain and jarring Seppios, who swore vehemently.

  “The emperor what?”

  “The emperor can. He would award the rudius to the gladiator who defeats the legend. The people would demand it.”

  Jonathan doubted they would ever find out. “Hulderic is legend for a reason. How will you defeat someone they say has no weakness?”

  “Every man has a weakness,” Tao broke in, casting a knowing look at Jonathan.

  Seppios crossed his arms and leaned back against the side of the cart. “He has been away from the arena too long and returns only for coin. My plan is simple.” He paused with a shrug of his shoulders. “I want it more.”

  Seeing the determination in Seppios’ face, the hard jaw and flat eyes, Jonathan could almost believe desire was enough. But he knew it wasn’t. If wanting to win more than anything would be enough to claim victory, he would be the one undefeated.

  Their cell door slammed closed for the night, plunging the tiny cell into darkness. Jonathan collapsed onto his bunk, as did Tao and Seppios. They all were feeling the effects of the demanding regimen of the trainers of the Ludis Maximus. The three-level gladiator training barracks complete with its own arena was almost half the size of the Flavian amphitheater. It seemed Emperor Domitian had no intention of being the weak link in his family dynasty. He’d commissioned the project soon after being named Caesar. The barracks not only complemented the family legacy, but more importantly, provided Rome with a central and steady supply of gladiators.

  The massive structure inspired awe in Jonathan as much as Tao and Seppios when they first arrived. Jonathan estimated there were nearly a thousand men in the barracks, quartered four to a cell roughly the same size as his own back in Capua.

  Seppios stirred in his rack beneath Jonathan’s. “I’m exhausted. I haven’t trained this hard since our spies told my people the Romans were coming.”

  “Then rest. With your mouth,” Tao said in the darkness

  “Clovis was taking it easy on us.”

  Seppios ignoring Tao’s command made Jonathan grin, but thoughts of their trainer stole the moment of levity. It was true. The past two weeks had shown them that the walls of this place and the men who ran it were the embodiment of all that was Rome. Like the war machine that had rolled over kingdoms and nations to form the empire, the training here rolled over them like a millstone on wheat until all chaff was gone.

  Jonathan thrived under it, renewed with the hope born in him the day Seppios spoke of the wooden sword and freedom. Even the training here felt like true contest, which Jonathan was conditioned to win at all costs. So many spectators filled the seats of the practice arena that every day felt like an en masse match.

  He’d searched the many faces as often as he could for one that matched his own. Getting word to his father could not be done through the guards, or haphazardly, lest the message be intercepted by Manius first. In addition to that risk, Jonathan had nothing to offer as a bribe to see a message delivered.

  “Are you still alive, Roman?” Seppios asked.

  Tao breathed a frustrated sigh in the darkness.

  “Yes.” The most I’ve been in a long time. “Does this disappoint you?”

  “Yes.”

  Even Tao laughed then.

  Jonathan lay awake long after the others slept. Two weeks had passed without a trace of Nessa and Quintus. He’d seen Caius three times, always observing with what could only be other lanistii. He knew with absolute conviction that if he were to fail, Caius would make good on his threat to kill Nessa—if for no other reason than to spite him, even in the grave.

  He would train even harder tomorrow.

  The fourth of September, the eve of the two-week long Ludi Romani. The Capitoline Trio—Jupiter, Minerva, and Juno—the heads of Rome’s pantheon, would be honored. Jonathan had once considered them idols, their worshipers pagans. Now they were nothing but an excuse for games. And these games were to be sin missione, fights to the death. He would have to add another face to those that haunted his sleep.

  He stood with Tao and Seppios among the other gladiators in the barracks as the trainers read aloud the schedule and pairings. Jonathan would fight a retiarius named Jelani. Jonathan knew him to be a good net fighter, though he had not been trained or matched with him yet. Jonathan had never lost to a retiarius, and that bolstered his confidence. They would fight tomorrow, the last match of opening day.

  Seppios would wait another three days before taking the sand against the champion of a house from Ariminum in the North. Names continued to be read, men grumbling they had not been chosen to fight Hulderic. While secretly being relieved they were not, as he’d been.

  Jonathan’s gut tightened as contests dwindled until only Hulderic’s remained, the final match on the final day of the games.

  They called Tao’s name.

  Tao remained stoic, as was his custom. Seppios met his gaze, and Jonathan saw his same fears reflected there. But Tao said nothing as they trained, ate evening meal, or when he and Seppios left with the others for Caesar’s feast. Jonathan remained alone in their cell, exempted from the feasting as always. So Caius maintained control even here.

  Nessa did not come.

  He longed for her there in the dark. The laughter in her brown eyes. The sweep of her hair when she moved. Most of all, the way her presence renewed something within him he couldn’t put into words.

  Would he die tomorrow? Would his father be among those watching? Would he recognize him when they called his name? Would Manius?

  He’d feared for Nessa’s life so long, thoughts of his own fate beyond death had remained a distant fog. What if he was wrong? What if like Deborah and his mother had taught him, hell awaited him, like all those who rejected God and the redemption of His Son Jesus? A faith he had once believed and then abandoned. Flashes of memories fed the turmoil within—the road from Rome, Valentina, the beating that nearly killed him. But strongest was the memory of his mother.

  Still and pale in death as Jonathan had fallen on her body to weep. He clung to that memory like a shield against his fear. If he died tomorrow, and found there was a God waiting for him, at least they would be even. God had abandoned him first.

  Jonathan waited for the guards to come take him from their cell to the arena. Tao clapped Jonathan’s shoulder, his hand as heavy as the mood on what might be Jonathan’s final morning.

  Seppios broke the silence. “If you face another Roman, lion killer, I’d rather you win.”

  That was the closest Seppios had ever come to revealing he held Jonathan in any esteem. He grinned and they exchanged nods. Their cell door opened, and Jonathan let a farewell die in his throat. He would return. He had to.

  The tunnel leading from the Ludis Maximus resembled a catacomb. Torches smelled of fresh pitch and made the air in the damp tunnel thin. He recognized a few faces among the group of thirty gladiators escorted by praetorian guards on either end of their procession. He didn’t know who among them Jelani was. Nor did he want to. By this afternoon, the retiarius would be dead.

  When they reached the pits below the arena floor, every sense came under assault. The rank smell of blood and animal dung hit first, followed by the stifling heat. Clanging armor, weapons being sharpened, and the growls and roars of caged animals across the staging area mingled at a deafening pitch.

  The gladiators were directed to two large cells with benches. Jonathan found an unoccupied corner and sat. Others milled about, a few starting private conversations in various tongues, most of them Greek. He purposed not to think about Nessa, only his training. For
his effort, she became all he could think about, except when the sounds of the games forced her from his thoughts.

  The morning beast hunts made Jonathan’s stomach turn with the memories of the slain elephants at his first games. Pulleys and chains rattled as slaves worked the gates, ramps, and platforms in perfect unison below the arena floor, sending the animals to meet their death above them. Soon the roar of the crowd beat like a slow, erratic pulse in time with the gates.

  The executions came next. Though for the first time Jonathan could only hear and not see them, the burden remained the same. The deaths plagued his soul. Not for the arsonists and murderers, but the innocent Jonathan knew swelled their ranks—their only crime believing in the same lie he had as a child.

  Slaves brought water and a midday meal Jonathan gave away. He never ate before contest. Even if that were not so, the heat and the carnage above him destroyed any appetite. A few others passed on their meal, but most ate undaunted. For half of the men here, it would be their last meal.

  More slaves brought capes and armor, under the watchful eyes of guards. These were distributed among the gladiators, guards pointing out who was to receive which pieces. Jonathan was given a pair of knee-high leg grieves and the padded leather arm sleeve of his style, the thraex. The helmet was bigger than he was accustomed to but fit well enough when he tried it on. He was given a brilliant red cape. The cloak reminded him of the Spartans, the legendary warriors Dionysius had taught him about.

  “Thraex,” a stranger called from across the cell. “It’s just for the opening ceremony. You won’t have to fight in it.”

  A few of the men laughed, but Jonathan wasn’t amused. The gladiator mocking him couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen years old—too young to be here.