by Nadia Aidan
Stepping deeper into the chambers, the dancing firelight revealed two men before him, their chests bare of hair and garments, and their skin glowing beneath the muted light, suggesting they’d been recently bathed and oiled.
“Where are they from?” he asked Romunus, the servant who was responsible for purchasing and delivering all slaves from the auction block to Claudius’ villa.
“Gaul, doctoris,” Romunus said from beside him.
Cyrus nodded, assessing each man closely.
Gauls, they were. That explained the proud, muscled physiques of the towering men, their bodies corded with dense muscle.
“What was your trade?” he asked of them in their native tongue, having learned many in his service to Claudius.
“Coppersmith,” one of the men replied whose name was Bacca, while the other relayed to Cyrus he had once been a farmer.
Cyrus nodded, and after questioning both men at length, he soon learned that neither had any training with a blade, which to Cyrus, meant they were useless to him and would require many months of instruction. Even then, there would be no assurance they would survive the final test before becoming a gladiator, or even their first battle in the arena.
With a sigh, he turned his back to the men and said to Romunus. “Was this the best you could do?”
“Dominus did not send me with much coin.” He shrugged. “At the least, they are sturdy and fit.”
“Sturdy and fit? I require fighters.” He shook his head in disgust and prepared to depart when Romunus halted him with a hand against his arm.
“Wait, there is one more I must show you.”
Cyrus peered down at the little man then once again at the two Gauls. “Well where is he then?”
Romunus gave a toothy smile. “Not he, she.”
She? Cyrus scowled. “No,” he said firmly, already turning to leave.
“Wait, you have not even seen her—”
“And I do not need to. We do not train women here. Those days are long past.”
“But dominus hints at doing so again.”
That halted Cyrus where he stood. Female gladiators within a ludus full of men was an inevitable disaster. Claudius had discovered this for himself and stopped training women long before Cyrus had joined the ludus.
“What foolishness is this you speak?” he demanded of Romunus.
“It is true. Rumors abound that the games of Capena have grown dull in comparison to Falerii. There has not been a female champion in some time. Dominus believes this is what Capena needs, that this will excite the crowds.”
Cyrus sincerely hoped this was a passing amusement of Claudius’, and that he was not serious. Women in a ludus? He snorted. The men would be unfocused, and jealousies would arise that would spill upon the battlefield. It would be a disaster, Cyrus was certain of this, and he wanted no part of it. If Claudius wished him to evaluate the females for gladiator training then he would have to tell him directly.
Cyrus turned to leave, but Romunus blocked Cyrus’ path.
“I have long heard rumors of this one,” Romunus began. “I did not think them true at first. I did not wish to believe she was the one they spoke of, but I asked others and it would seem tales of her do not prove false.”
Cyrus’ raised brow was his only response as he waited Romunus out. No matter the wishes of Claudius, Cyrus had absolutely no interest in a gladiatrix, but if Claudius did then it would be wise to take a look at her, if only to give his master a fair assessment of her potential.
“She was once the female champion of Aquileia—a gladiatrix. For many years she was undefeated, and then one day it was as if she vanished. She was sold to another master, and was not seen in the arena again. We are fortunate to have her in our possession now…” A shadow crossed Romunus’ face then as his voice trailed off.
“What is it?” Cyrus demanded impatiently, when Romunus did not finish.
“There is but only one small, very minor problem.”
Cyrus frowned, his patience with the simpering man threading thin. “And that would be?”
“She refuses to fight. She is demanding she be given domestic duties.”
A slave with demands.
Despite himself, Cyrus could not stop the small smile from spreading across his face.
Past fights or not, and no matter her reputation, she had not been inside the arena in some time. That in itself was telling, and that she refused to fight was, also. She could very well not be fit for the life of a gladiatrix again.
With a long, almost pained sigh, he nodded to Romunus. He could not believe Claudius was considering such a thing. He could not believe he was going to give credence to such foolishness by assessing her. “Very well, show me this female gladiator of yours.”
It was as if he told Romunus the heavens had opened up and poured forth pure copper, the man’s wide, gapped smile was so broad.
“You shall not be disappointed. She is quite beautiful as well.”
Cyrus had to force himself not to scowl. “How wonderful. My burden has just become lighter,” he said dryly. “I shall not have to instruct her on fighting tactics in the arena after all for she can simply charm her opponent to death.”
* * * *
Beneath the palatial home of Claudius Norbanus and the training grounds of the ludus were the twisted tunnels where the slave quarters could be found, shrouded in shadows and darkness, interrupted only by the occasional oil lamp.
Cyrus maneuvered through these dank vestibules on his way to the chambers where this female gladiator—heralded by Romunus as a legend of her time—waited.
Cyrus bit back an impatient grunt as he passed the two guards standing at the entryway. Like the quarters of the men, the entire space was small, the ground hard with mud caked dirt, and he had to squint to see beneath the faint light flickering from the pottery lamp in one corner.
Yet, as soon as his eyes adjusted, his gaze lit upon her, even as Romunus droned on in the background, pointing her out.
Cyrus needed no such introduction.
She stood a head taller than the other women, her body lean with muscle, yet gently rounded. She boasted the physique of a gladiator, but possessed the gentle curves of a comely, feminine woman.
Even under the faint light, her skin glowed with a brilliant luminescence that did not owe itself to the olive oil with which the other women had been coated. Instead, her skin was naturally smooth, a shimmering rich copper hue which hinted at Carthaginian origins.
He assessed her as he would any prospective gladiator and begrudgingly had to acknowledge, physically, she was well suited for the arena, but when his eyes met hers, and he found himself drowning within twin pools of swirling topaz, he also acknowledged while she was well-suited to the arena, she was not well suited to this ludus.
Romunus had not spoken false. She was a regal, exotic beauty with intense, almost mesmerizing eyes that seemed to ensnare a man, to captivate him.
Cyrus told himself he was not captivated, but later her eyes would haunt him. Well into the night when he succumbed to the peace of sleep, those piercing golden-bronze eyes would wake him from his dreams—dreams filled with visions of her.
It was for that reason he would not see her join this ludus.
She would interfere with the focus and concentration of his men while they trained.
She would interfere with his focus and concentration while he trained them.
“What is your name?” he asked her, though he told himself he did not wish to know it, that he did not care to know it.
She did not answer him immediately, instead she peered at him from haughty, narrowed eyes, her chin thrust into the air.
He frowned. The expression upon her face he’d glimpsed a thousand times. Defiance, resistance, a wild, rebellious spirit that would be difficult to tame. He knew that look well, for he’d possessed it himself, three years ago.
“I asked you your name.” Cyrus repeated, his voice rougher, the edge to it unmistakable.
And she did not mistake its intent, nor did he mistake hers when she glared at him.
“Aurora.”
“Where are you from, Aurora?”
“Ask him.” She jerked her head toward Romunus. “He seems to know all about me.”
“And yet, I asked you.”
If it could, her gaze grew darker. “I am from many places.”
“Originally,” he bit out, now wholly convinced her time as a gladiator was at an end. Cyrus could tell already, she lacked the discipline necessary to obey commands. She would not fit well within this ludus, not in any ludus. Which left him to ponder, how she’d possibly achieved such prominence as a gladiatrix when she still possessed such defiance? He did not anticipate her time in Claudius’ household would be long either, not with such a disposition, for neither Claudius, nor his wife, Cornelia would stand for her insolence.
“Carthage,” she answered, finally.
“I am told you are a fighter, a gladiatrix.”
“Then you were told wrong. I have not been inside the arena for many years, and I do not intend to enter it ever again.”
Cyrus ignored Romunus’ sputtering beside him as his eyebrows lifted. “If Claudius Norbanus wishes you to fight, then you shall fight again.”
“Maybe.” Aurora’s lips curled into a slight grin, which softened her features and caused her eyes to twinkle. If it was possible, she grew ever more beautiful. “Maybe he will wish for me to fight, but I imagine he may find the other skills I possess far more useful to him.”
Despite himself, Cyrus’ gaze slid the length of her figure, noting the fullness of her breasts straining against her tunica, the provocative flare of her supple hips. He had no doubt Claudius would be quite interested in these skills she possessed, and for some reason which Cyrus could not explain, the thought of Claudius doing what seemed to be his nature with this particular woman, caused Cyrus’ gut to clench tight into painful knots and before he realized it a crimson haze had surrounded his vision.
He shook himself, but the tightness within his jaw would not subside.
“Claudius will be taken with you,” Cyrus admitted in a low voice so only she could hear his words. “But you do not wish such a thing,” he assured her as he stepped closer.
“And why not?” Her grin was knowing. “Because you want me for the arena?”
No, because I want you for myself.
Cyrus started, uncertain of where such a thought had sprung from when he did not wish it in the least. He cared naught for this woman, or what Claudius would do to her, with her.
He cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice was still faint, his words true.
“No. It is simply that I would not wish such a thing for you because you are better than that. A woman who was once the mistress of the arena should not find herself a common whore.”
Her eyes rounded, and he did not remain there long enough to hear if she spoke. He spun around and stalked out of the room, leaving the woman who called herself Aurora behind him, although, much to his grave annoyance, her face, the enticing shadow of her figure against her tunica, remained firmly fixed within his mind for the remainder of the night and well into the morning. His only consolation was that her time would not be long in the House of Norbanus, not with such an indomitable spirit. And when she was gone, Cyrus could blessedly forget he’d ever laid eyes upon the golden-eyed gladiatrix with skin as rich and smooth as liquid copper.
* * * *
Aurora’s gaze shadowed the man with whom she’d exchanged words until he disappeared from the room.
For a long while, all she could do was stare into the empty archway, her eyes probing the darkness. He’d commanded she furnish her name, yet he’d not seen fit to reveal his, although she knew he was a slave, no better than she—the metal collar, inscribed with the governor’s seal hanging from his neck, suggested as much.
Despite his servitude, he still possessed an arrogance that bespoke of authority. His bearing was confident, his long strides sure. No matter the inscription upon his collar, this man was no slave—maybe in word, but not in deed.
Two guards entered the chambers speaking in fluid Latin, which Aurora followed easily. The hour grew late, and Aurora soon learned she would not be presented to the master and mistress of the household until the next day, so she was led to the quarters where female slaves were kept.
Aurora frowned upon entering the still, dark chambers, where she glimpsed a lone woman asleep in one corner, her back facing Aurora.
A worn pallet was shoved into Aurora’s arms by one of the guards. She stepped back as the door was slammed shut and securely locked with a resounding click. With a small sigh, she turned from the doorway and stretched out upon the ground, the thin pallet uncomfortable against the hard, jagged earth beneath her.
As she stared up at the barren ceiling, she sifted through her plan. With every mission, she was given few details and nothing was ever recorded upon papyrus, for if she were ever caught, she could not implicate others.
Beyond furnishing the name of her target and her task, Olympia told her little else. She’d been instructed to journey to Capena, where upon her day of arrival, she was to meet a man known only as Aurelius behind the Theater of Arias at high noon. Men were a rarity in missions, usually paid a large sum to do a task.
As was always the case, she’d been told to take what the man offered, follow where he led, and ask no questions. He’d provided her with a threadbare tunica—the common attire of slaves, then taken her to the auction block at the center of the city where he’d arranged to have her sold. Aurora had spoken few words to Aurelius. She doubted she would ever see him again, yet if she did, she would not know him at all for his head had been hooded.
There were many things Aurora did not know and would not unless they were essential to the mission. There could very well be other accomplices—at the auction block, within this house, maybe even other slaves. Aurora would never know—at least not unless they’d been instructed to reveal themselves.
She’d grown used to such secrecy, learning such was the way of The Order.
Each and every city within The Empire had a temple dedicated to Minerva, and each and every temple housed one branch of The Order, with its own high priestess. Together they formed a network that stretched across the vast territory of Rome.
Every directive came from the seven member council known as The Covenant. When instructed to do so, Olympia would coordinate with the other high priestesses. Yet, there were times when Olympia’s branch was instructed to act alone, as were the others. It all depended upon what was necessary.
Aurora could very well have other allies on this mission, who had their own assignments, or she could not. She might never know. And truly, it was of little importance.
Aurora had come there for one thing, to do one thing, and with gnawing frustration, she knew it would be difficult to see to her purpose if she was forced to train as a fighter with a horde of barbaric gladiators.
Without warning, her thoughts strayed to the man whose name she did not know, but whose face found purchase within the recesses of her imagination. No, she corrected herself. It was not simply his face, but his eyes—a deep, dark blue, so dark they appeared almost violet, yet she imagined beneath the morning rays of sunlight they were probably as clear as the sky.
Aurora pondered for a moment, correcting herself again. It wasn’t simply the pure beauty of his gaze that left an impression upon her either, but the shadows she’d glimpsed within their depths, the pain that haunted him.
Aurora knew pain, she knew it well, for it had been a constant companion in her life for so many years. She recognized pain in others, the deep, soul killing kind that could take someone so close to despair they’d gladly forfeit their life to end it.
That was the pain she’d glimpsed in his shadowed eyes—the man who’d demanded her name, but had not given her his.
She closed her eyes, but it was a long while before Aurora succumbed
to the welcome arms of sleep, her thoughts drifting between her plan, her purpose, and the man whose bitter gaze was so at odds with the brilliance of his cobalt eyes.
Chapter Two
Aurora was not certain if it was morning or still night when she felt the weight of a heavy shadow upon her.
She’d always experienced fear in those waking moments just before the impending pain, the brutality that would soon join it. It was a familiar feeling, but one she’d not known in a long, long time.
Driven by instinct, her lids snapped open, and her arm slashed upwards to close her hand around the column of someone’s throat. She squeezed tight, threatening to crush the windpipe of her attacker as she dragged him down to the ground and straddled him, his neck firmly imprisoned within her grip.
Darkness still lingered in the room, although a faint glimmer of light streamed through the small metal grate at the top of the door. Aurora’s eyes quickly adjusted to the blackness, and she could now see the figure beneath her. That is when she noticed the neck within her palm was slender and smooth. It was the neck of a woman. She glanced over at the corner where a woman should have still been curled up asleep. It was empty.
Aurora rolled off the body beneath her and stood quickly, her face shadowed with concern.
“I am sorry. I did not—”
“It is fine,” her victim gasped, and Aurora noticed she was not a woman at all but a girl just on the cusp of womanhood, with wide doe-like eyes, and a fresh, youthful face. “I should have woken you first.” The young girl smiled, though it was pained. “But I was simply too curious to get a good look at you.”
Aurora’s brow wrinkled. “A good look at me?”
“Yes, the new gladiatrix. From the moment you entered the villa word quickly spread that there was a female gladiator among us. I was quite happy to learn you would be joining my quarters.” The girl nodded politely. “And honored.”