by Aja James
Knowing she was being dismissed but too
concerned to move, Wan’er hovered over the Healer, helped her get settled, tucking the coverlet around her.
Rain sighed. “Please, Little Sparrow,” she coaxed her handmaiden with the fond nickname, “let me rest for now. I have three long days ahead of me. You would not have me preside over the Rite less than at my best, would you?”
Wan’er shook her head. On a whim, she bent down and kissed her lady’s cheek, giving her a brief hug before shuffling out the door and closing it behind her.
Rain breathed deeply as she tried to calm her roiling emotions. What had possessed her to speak in such a manner? To attack him with those ruthless words and physical assault besides! She’d offended his pride, his sensibility, his very masculinity.
She could feel the hurt and torment coming off him in great waves as she left the room. She doubted he knew how clearly she could read him. It was part of her Gift to understand and manipulate energy. He’d already been in pain whenever she was in his presence, but at her unprovoked bombardment, his anguish had magnified a hundred times, until it consumed his entire being.
And she, the Healer, had visited that suffering upon him.
Tears of shame and remorse welled in her eyes and leaked down her cheeks. She did not understand him after all. She did not understand herself. She wanted him desperately. Had craved him for ten years, ever since she’d first looked upon him in the sanctuary. She hated that he hadn’t applied to Serve her, hated that he didn’t apply again. Furious that he only offered himself to settle a debt.
It took every ounce of willpower she had to stop herself from caving in to the ambrosia he offered. How dared he press his vein against her lips, against her teeth. How dared he tempt her to forget herself! How hard she struggled to leash her desire to burrow deep into his warmth, sink her fangs into his wrist, his throat, his thighs, his groin – fill herself to the brim with his Nourishment over and over and over again.
She was beside herself with starvation. She knew that full well. What she didn’t know was whether she craved the Nourishment or whether she craved the man.
*** *** *** ***
Valerius sat on his bed, elbows on his thighs, hands in front of his face, palms up as he examined his wrists in wretched silence.
He was deluding himself to think she would want to take Nourishment from him.
Not from these veins. Not from this body.
He could barely stand to be in his own skin, much less expect others to bear his presence.
He wouldn’t have been surprised if the blood in his veins ran black instead of red, so dark was his heart and shuttered his soul. The only time he felt free was when he hunted vampires. Amidst the rage, brutality, and vengeance, he could be himself and unleash the demon within.
It was his only purpose in this world – to kill. Pain was the only thing he understood…
*** *** *** ***
Sometime before 200 B.C. Outskirts of Rome.
The gladiator spun around and raised his shield a moment before his opponent’s axe struck it with resounding force, pushing him back several steps, his shield arm throbbing from the impact.
Only momentarily fazed, he swung his sword in a sideways slice, spinning as he did so, using the momentum of his torso to increase the power of the stroke.
His opponent leaped back but not in enough time, as the blade swiped a deep gash through his unprotected side. Bellowing from the pain, the other fighter staggered back and almost lost his footing, quickly growing weak as blood poured freely down his legs into the dirt ground beneath him.
With a roar to anticipate his final blow, the gladiator took two large rapid steps forward, swinging his sword in an unstoppable downward arc. The opponent didn’t even have time to scream before the deadly spatha carved through his skull, splitting his face in half and exiting the other side through his neck. He fell first to his knees, his torso followed with a clang and a thud, the sounds unheard over the roaring of the spectators in the makeshift arena.
The gladiator strode in a circle around the stage of his victory, arms held high, shield and sword in hand. He played to the cheering crowd as a shower of coins were tossed down at his feet.
He’d put on a good show. He knew that his master’s coffers would be full tonight.
Circling a final time, he exited the arena through an underground passage into the pits where other gladiators, slaves, prisoners, and animals were kept.
Where his fourteen-year-old son was waiting with a sleeve of wine.
“Ha!” he exclaimed in a booming voice, still energized by the fight. “Your old man still has it in him, eh?”
He ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately and tossed him two gold pieces he’d picked up from the arena grounds. That should represent his cut of the winnings. Enough to send home to his wife and daughter to buy them a month worth of grains, meat and spices, enough still to pay for a new suit of armor and a real sword for his son, who excelled at battle with an almost unnatural talent.
The gladiator’s chest puffed with pride at the boy, who beamed up at him in return with awe and admiration. In his day, the gladiator was a fearsome warrior, undefeated across most of Rome and its surrounding cities, but the endless battles had taken its toll, and age had finally caught up with him. Victory these days were more and more difficult to come by, but this old tiger still had some teeth.
He laughed and parried with his son as the boy practiced with an ancient, rusted sword, for the moment ignoring the numbness in his shield arm that was spreading slowly but relentlessly to his shoulder…
Later that night, as the gladiator soaked in a hot, steaming bath, his son hard at work scrubbing his back with a wash cloth, he counted his remaining days in the arena with foreboding.
As if reading his thoughts the boy asked, “Sire, when can I fight? I defeat all the other trainees easily, and sometimes even the seasoned gladiators. I know I am not yet as big and strong, but I am much faster and nimbler, and I think on my feet. Didn’t you tell me that’s most of the battle? The ability to anticipate your opponent’s moves?”
“Aye,” the gladiator answered, sighing in pleasure as the boy kneaded his aching shoulders with just the right amount of pressure. “But your old man has yet a few years left, never fear. Enough time for you to hone your technique and become truly unbeatable.” He grabbed one of his son’s hands to get his attention.
“You have to plan your campaign, Valerius. You cannot enter the arena before the right time. You have to take care to build your reputation, until your reputation becomes myth, and myth becomes legend, and you become the greatest gladiator of all time. Then you will be a rich man in your own right, and you can buy your freedom, your mother’s and sister’s too, and take a decent woman to wife, raise and support your own family and hold your head high as a full Roman citizen.”
“And your freedom too, Sire,” Valerius answered the usual way. It was a recurring conversation between father and son, a dream they both shared and nurtured, each taking steps toward making it a reality. But Valerius was impatient. He wanted everything for his family today, not tomorrow. And despite what his father said, he knew he was ready, at the tender age of fourteen, to enter the battlefield of men.
“One more fight,” the gladiator said, his eyes closing with the onset of sleep. “One more fight and I’ll retire to leave the charge to you. My son.”
Valerius circled his arms around his father’s neck in a brief embrace, a deep and abiding love washing over him.
A gladiator’s life was brutal at best, bleak and terrifying at worst. But his father was a good fighter, and an even better man. He was generous with his affection, though Roman men eschewed public displays, and the softer emotions in general. He was generous with his time, teaching his son not only how to be the fiercest fighter that ever was, but also how to be a real man.
A man upheld his responsibilities. To his dependents, his superiors, but most of all, to his own
sense of right and wrong. He never cheated, never lied, and always defended those weaker than him. He respected his father and mother, his sister, his friends and, one day, his woman. He would woo her, protect and provide for her, and cherish her above all others, above himself.
All this Valerius learned at his father’s knee, and occasionally when he strayed, by the flat of his father’s sword. They were worthwhile lessons to learn.
Valerius helped the gladiator out of the washtub, briskly toweled him off and half led, half supported him to the awaiting straw cot. His father was asleep before his body hit the mattress. With a sigh, Valerius pulled a thin blanket over his pater and lay down on his own ragged pallet beside the cot.
He immediately fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of the arena, and amidst the deafening cheers, his freedom…
One week later, their master decided that Valerius’ sire had one good show still left in him. He arranged for the gladiator to take on a wild beast, a chariot with archers and three prisoners of war in a well
orchestrated spectacle.
They’d agreed on the plan of attack ahead of time, the tricks that the master would pull to tip the advantage to his prized gladiator, so there was limited danger save unexpected human and animal reactions in the heat of combat.
Despite Valerius’ entreaties, his father decided to take the risk and entered the arena with his favored shield and sword – one last battle before his retirement from the field, one more win to secure his family’s freedom.
As the gladiator took to his stage from the south entrance into the arena, a lion, chained by his back paw, was released from the west through an underground tunnel. Like a graceful dancer, the gladiator pivoted to his right and faced the beast with sword ready to strike. He slashed and stabbed with methodical strokes, beating the lion back towards the tunnel. The crowd seemed pleased with his efforts, but there were also jeers of boredom.
Not enough bloodshed.
Before the Lion had fully retreated into the tunnel, a chariot drawn by a team of two war-trained stallions entered the area from the north gate, holding one driver and two archers with full quivers of arrows, bows drawn back with deadly aim.
Momentarily stunned by the appearance of the second foe before the first had been fully subdued, the gladiator stood rooted to his spot, arms lax at his sides. This was not the plan.
Quickly, however, he regrouped to face the second opponent, shield held closely before his torso. But these were not stage archers, letting fly arrows mostly for show. These archers aimed for his legs and feet where he was unprotected and one arrow pierced his right calve.
“No!”
The gladiator barely registered the shout of anguish from his son. He was too taken aback. This was not the plan!
Crouching down so that most of his body was covered behind the shield, he hobbled backwards toward the south gate. It was time to retreat. Though this was supposed to be his final victory, though he’d planned the show down to each and every move with his master, something had gone terribly wrong. Vaguely, he considered that his master might have betrayed him. But for what purpose?
Suddenly, the lion pounced from his left, and he turned just in time to block the claws and jaws with his shield. But the weight was unbearable, and his shoulder and forearm exploded in pain, then completely lost feeling in a matter of moments. Involuntarily, his grip on the shield relaxed, the metal barrier falling with a clang to the arena grounds as his left arm fell limp against his side.
Another arrow pierced his back right between the shoulder blades. The gladiator fell forward to his knees, the shock and the pain from his wounds muting all of the sounds around him, his eyes blurring as they tried to focus on his opponents.
This was the end, he thought, even as he heard the trap door to the underground tunnel from the east open and the last of his opponents arrive. This was all wrong. He was supposed to have defeated them one at a time, yet now they charged at him all at once. He could hear the men’s shouts of battle, their only goal to cut him down. Either his life or theirs.
He managed to get to his feet in time to parry a blow from one of the men, barely avoiding another arrow that jabbed into the earth beside his foot. This was not a fair fight by any stretch of the imagination, he knew, but he took a deep breath and roared his own battle cry, charging at the men with every last ounce of strength. He would not go down meekly, he thought. He would give the audience their money’s worth. With his glorious death, perhaps he could still free his family. If this was what his master required to fulfill his blood debt, then by the gods he would deliver.
And then he was not alone.
Someone was pushing back the lion with a long spear. He could see the quick, efficient movements of the lion tamer out of the corner of his eye. When the lion had been beaten back into the tunnel, his aide took down one of the archers with a powerful spear toss. As the archer’s dead body fell over the side of the chariot, the wheels struck it awkwardly as they rolled over it, and the driver lost control of the reins. The chariot swerved dangerously, and the remaining archer struggled for balance. He lost his aim and concentration, instead gripping the sides of the chariot to stay inside the vehicle.
The gladiator watched in a daze as his shield got picked up by the newcomer, who gained momentum with a few quick steps and let fly the circular metal shield like a discus at the stallions’ front legs. The horses stumbled upon impact and crashed hard into the dirt ground. The sudden stop jolted the chariot like a catapult, and the two remaining riders shot out with bone-breaking velocity.
It all happened so fast, the gladiator only caught a blur of movement as his aide stepped in front of him, effectively intercepting a blow from one of his remaining opponents’ club. The gladiator’s vision was steadily receding, and he blinked hard to keep his foes in sight.
“Get back!” the young warrior who defended him shouted amidst the jarring sounds of battle.
Valerius?
The gladiator could only shake his head in confusion as he realized belatedly that his rescuer was indeed his fourteen year-old son. The boy was fighting three grown men bare-handed and winning!
Valerius managed to dodge a thrust from one of their swords, turning sideways at the last moment and using the forward momentum of his attacker against him to pull him effortlessly to the ground. He leapt onto the fallen back of the first attacker and used the body as a springboard to engage the other two men while simultaneously cracking some bones underfoot and ensuring that the fallen opponent stayed down.
With a series of turns, twists, well-aimed elbow and knee jabs, body throws and nimble maneuvering, Valerius made short work of the other two opponents until all three men lay defeated on the dirt grounds.
The crowd went wild with cheers and applause at the incredible display. But Valerius didn’t notice as he rushed to his father who had sunk to the ground, lying motionlessly on his belly, bleeding profusely from his wounds.
“Sire!” Valerius gathered him close and tried to ascertain the damage.
His father pushed his searching hands away, saying gruffly, “This is your moment. You must play to the crowds. Leave me be. Rise and walk your victory rounds.”
Valerius was shaking his head before his father had finished speaking, but the gladiator clutched his arm urgently and plunged ahead, “You will do this, my son, for both our sakes. You are the new champion, and they love you. You must secure the crowd’s affection and approval so that they shower you with coin. This is a stage, and you are a player. We are all players. The crowds are the gods of your destiny. Go and appease them. Go!”
The gladiator shoved his son away and watched as Valerius briefly hesitated before turning to their audience in the stands, raising his arms and letting out a long cry of victory.
The crowd roared with approval, sending a shower of coins to rain on the arena grounds. The gladiator watched with pride as Valerius strode around the arena, getting the crowds to cheer louder, establishing himself as the undi
sputed champion.
He’d done it, the gladiator thought. He’d secured the crowd’s favor. Surely there would be enough coin from this win to pay off his entire family’s debt, and his own defeat only added to the drama and suspense.
The gladiator sighed a long, weary breath. It was time for him to retire, he thought as his eyelids grew too heavy to lift. And what a glorious way to do so, being able to witness his son’s induction into manhood, resplendently victorious in his youth and might.
My son.
Yes, it was time to retire. The gladiator embraced his long-awaited rest with a smile.
Chapter Four Rain bid farewell for the day to the third qualified Pure-male and watched him slowly and painstakingly make his way beyond the threshold of the Rite Enclosure.
She closed her eyes and released a pent up breath. It had been a long second day in the three-day Rite of the Phoenix, a day she looked forward to only slightly less than the third and final day. Today, she had pushed the males almost beyond their endurance. She was surprised they hadn’t decided to withdraw their application.
The Phoenix Cycle would be much worse. As she prepared to leave the chamber, Wan’er came forth with a nonplussed expression.
“My lady,” her handmaiden said haltingly, “it appears you have one final applicant.”
“What?” Rain responded reflexively. She heard her handmaiden perfectly well, but the words didn’t make a lick of sense.
Wan’er shifted a bit nervously, as if indecisive about how to break some bad news. “Your final applicant is waiting in the antechamber.” She bit her lower lip and blurted, “It is my lord Valerius.”
Rain’s eyebrows shot up in shock. Surely she had not heard correctly.
“Shall I show him in and prepare him for the test?” Wan’er asked tentatively, uncertain of her lady’s mood.
Without answering her handmaiden, Rain marched angrily to the antechamber and threw apart the double doors.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded of the warrior leaning against the back wall. She braced herself against the welcome sight of him in full health. She’d been on tender hooks all the previous day, wondering whether she’d been able to heal him completely, whether she should have checked on him. She could barely concentrate on the first day’s tests, she’d been so distracted. But now that he appeared fully recovered, her anger overrode all concern.