by Nadia Aidan
She looked closely at him, her eyes searing him to the deepest planes of his soul. “And what hand do you have in Claudius’ cause for suspicion?”
Cyrus froze beneath her, but he held her gaze. “Claudius is not a fool.”
And neither was she. He knew it did not go unnoticed to her that he’d not answered her question, but he was grateful when she did not probe further.
It was a mired and complicated situation in which he now found himself. Claudius held the key to his freedom, and until he’d met Aurora that was all he’d ever desired.
He did not wish to betray the man who’d promised to free him, but neither could he betray the woman he’d grown to care for so deeply. If Aurora were not plotting against Claudius then he would not have to betray either of them...
“Tell me truly that you are not involved in a plot against our dominus.”
“He is not my dominus.” Aurora’s eyes were now shadowed, her face devoid of any expression. “Besides, no matter what I say, you will believe what you will.” When he moved to protest, she silenced him with a single finger against his lips. “That does not upset me. You do not need to believe me in order to trust me.”
Her words puzzled him. “There can be no trust in the space of lies.”
“You are wrong, Cyrus. You do not need the truth in order to trust.”
Aurora smiled down at him. A man such as Cyrus could not fully comprehend one such as herself, a person who possessed a dual nature. Just as he could not also fully comprehend that trust and lies were not two facings upon the same coin.
She lied to him to protect him, but he could trust her. With his very life? He could if he did not stand in her way, and even then she was not certain she would have the heart to kill him.
Another tense silence found its way inside the cave as both of them retreated to the dark corners of their thoughts. No words were needed in order to gather what brewed inside their heads.
Cyrus knew she was not who she made herself out to be, but he would have to be the one to decide if his master’s life was more important than what the two of them now shared.
Aurora had her own decisions to make as well. She would not compromise her duty for anyone, but neither did she think she could take Cyrus’ life if he stood against her.
“Are you prepared for the games on the morrow?” Aurora asked, purposely steering their discussion into neutral waters.
Cyrus looked curiously at her. “You are the first to ask me that.” He smiled and it was as if secrets and deception did not still linger between them. It was as if their discussion had not just been fraught with tension. Aurora could not help herself. She smiled with him.
“My bout is a celebratory reenactment of Scipio’s defeat of Hannibal at Zama.”
Aurora bristled at his statement. “Romans and their insipid reenactments. Well, I hope the gladiators fighting as Carthaginians defeat you then.”
His gaze wavered between feigned indignation and amusement. “I do not relish taking the Roman position, but I would not wager upon a Carthaginian victory if I were you.” His eyes sobered then, sending Aurora’s good spirits plummeting because she knew what was soon to come.
“As much as it is appreciated, I think your concern is misplaced. You have long been absent from the arena, and now you find yourself the main draw. I worry more for you.”
Aurora fought the urge to look away. As well he should worry, she thought. She shared his concerns.
“I am frightened,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. She questioned what had compelled her to reveal such vulnerability to him, but immediately acknowledged she already knew. She trusted Cyrus, and when she looked into his eyes she found only kindness. She felt safe when she was within his arms. She felt as if she could tell him almost anything.
His arms tightened around her. “You will not fail,” he whispered against her brow when she rested her head atop his chest.
“I believe that. I promised myself long ago that I would never draw my last breath within an arena, and I shall not. But I am not the champion I once was. I fear I will disappoint the crowds—Claudius—you.”
“You could never disappoint me. And you need only to win over the crowds, and you shall secure Claudius’ favor.”
“And what if I do not? What if I perform horribly? What if I lose?”
“You cannot lose Aurora and hope to keep the promise you made to yourself. Claudius is blood thirsty when it comes to the arena. If you fail him there, then he will fail you. I watched many promising gladiators lose their lives because one man was displeased.”
His arms around her clenched tighter, as if he could hold her to him forever, but he could not.
“You will not fail, Aurora,” he whispered. “Because you simply cannot afford to lose.”
Chapter Eight
With Cornelia at his side, Claudius settled into his seat overlooking the expansive arena. Senator Vibius sat beside Cornelia, and Claudius nodded, greeting the man for whom the games honored very coolly.
If he’d had a choice, Claudius would not have attended, and certainly not presented his gladiators. Yet, despite all of what transpired at the senator’s home, not to hold the already planned games, would have been considered an unforgivable offense among those far more esteemed than Claudius who valued Senator Vibius. To slight the senator so publicly would have earned Claudius nothing but disdain from the nobility. He would have been ostracized, his gladiators no longer welcome at any of the most favored games.
It was no secret that he still did not entirely believe the senator’s protests of innocence. He had no idea why Vibius would wish him dead, for he had nothing the senator would want.
His villa was not larger, the province he resided over not particularly strategic, and his chests did not possess greater denarii than that of the senator’s. He glanced at his wife, dismissing the thought before it had barely formed. Cornelia was indeed a great beauty, but a man as even-tempered as Vibius would never take her as a lover. Claudius could think of few men who would. As a wife? Yes—because her dowry was a small fortune—but not a lover. Cornelia’s oscillating moods that, within a single heartbeat, swung from raving madness to calculating coldness were well known throughout The Empire. No man would choose to spend time within her company, unless they were obligated to do so.
Claudius could not determine what reason Vibius would have for orchestrating his demise, but he no longer trusted the man. He trusted no one. He had many enemies—in the senate, in Rome, within the province of Capena and the lands beyond. Even now, as he sat there, someone plotted to kill him for spies in Rome and Capena had been paid generously to confirm his suspicions.
Claudius hardly trusted Cyrus, despite his unswerving loyalty. He knew Cyrus’ freedom meant more to him, than Claudius’ life. That was why he’d promised Cyrus he would have it if he delivered the information Claudius sought. Cyrus would do anything to return to his homeland, even risk his life to protect the man who held him captive.
As if he’d conjured him, the trumpets of the arena sounded loud and strong while flutes and horns began to play. The heavy iron gates swung open, slowly revealing the large figure of a man, his arms and legs shielded with armor, his face obscured by a shimmering bronze helmet. His torso was bare, massive, and with each step he took, muscles rippled beneath sun darkened flesh.
Cyrus.
His champion gladiator.
The champion of Capena.
The crowds roared to life when he removed his helmet and they could all gaze upon his face. Flowers and garments were hurled into the arena, littering the sand about his feet.
The mob loved him, adored him.
The rumble of the crowd was deafening, pounding against Claudius’ ears. The arena was full to bursting with people clamoring to get another glimpse of him.
What foolishness had prompted him to offer the gladiator his freedom?
He could not give it. Not as yet, he decided. Claudius looked around the arena,
the frenzy of the people. He could not free Cyrus until the favor of the people turned to another, until he was defeated within the arena. And even then, he would not give Cyrus his freedom, at least not the freedom his champion sought.
Upon his defeat, Cyrus’ death would send the crowd into a fury. The games would be sold out for many months after that in anticipation of seeing the champion who’d defeated the mighty beast of Thrace—Cyrus.
No, he could not give Cyrus his freedom. Not yet, not ever.
* * * *
If these were anything like the arena games Aurora was accustomed to, they were typically an all-day spectacle. The town criers would begin heralding the matches at dawn, and the crowds would descend upon the city in droves.
If there were criminals to be executed, they would be dispatched throughout the day until midday, and that was when the gladiators would be presented within the arena.
Given the hasty nature of these games, visiting gladiators from Falerii and Rome had not been invited. On this day, the ludus of Claudius Norbanus would be on display as they battled against one another in mostly friendly bouts.
The one exception was hers.
Aurora—the female champion of Aquileia. This was her inaugural bout before the people of Capena. A female, and once a great champion—tales of her had drawn the crowd just as surely as the promise of a glimpse of Cyrus.
She was set to be the final match against an unknown opponent. Every man within the ludus had been matched against another, so she was ignorant of who her adversary was. But she knew Claudius well. He wanted to incite the crowds. He wanted them to leave the arena this day with her name upon their lips, thirsty for the blood she would shed again. Her opponent would be a seemingly impossible challenge, she was certain. Claudius would have her legend spread throughout The Empire, as it had once spread before.
Aurora watched the present match through the metal grate.
She would fight next, but before her was Cyrus.
Aurora stared at him with rapt fascination, coming to understand then why Cyrus so enthralled the crowds, why he so excited them.
He was handsome, to be sure—perfectly chiseled muscles bunching and cording as he wielded his sword with effortless precision. Cyrus was also an intelligent and skilled fighter, who was strategic in choosing every strike, every retreat. Yet, it was more than that. The fervor with which he fought, his concentration, his passion was the reason for her captivation, and they were what had earned him the crowd’s rapture. Cyrus held them all spellbound because of the intensity with which he battled his opponent.
It was a simple reenactment of General Scipio’s legendary defeat of the great Hannibal of Carthage. The bout was not fixed, but Cyrus faced one of the newest gladiators, who possessed neither the skill, nor the fortitude to defeat the champion. That Cyrus would remain the champion of Capena, was assured.
Yet, Cyrus did not fight as if the match was already won.
He fought with passion. He fought with intense focus.
A small, secretive smile curled her lips because the same could be said for the way in which he made love.
Cyrus timed his movements perfectly, precisely. A tactic she’d used well, and many times before, to exhaust her opponent. And his opponent was now truly exhausted. He labored under the weight of his sword, his movements slowing with every second.
Aurora blinked, her eyes closing but a moment, and the bout was over. Cyrus had beaten his opponent back, until he was worn down, until he’d stumbled and flailed wildly.
Cyrus stood above the young fighter, who was flat on his back, staring at the tip of the blade a hairsbreadth from his nose.
The crowd erupted into frenzied pandemonium, chanting Cyrus’ name—his arena title—The Beast of Thrace.
It was thundering, deafening. He was beloved by them.
Aurora knew all too well the immensity of being loved by the crowds, the crushing weight that accompanied their scorn.
The people were fickle.
You could be loved this day and despised the next.
Aurora had learned that lesson well, and from it she’d learned the mob served its purpose but only to a point. To bolster oneself according to the whims of the crowd was foolish. It was dangerous.
Cyrus stood within the center of the arena, his head back, his arms raised.
He accepted the adoration of the crowd, but Aurora knew the man before her well enough to know their praise changed nothing for him.
He would remain as humble as always. Claudius stood up from his seat to issue a verdict for Cyrus’ fallen opponent. His actions were purely for the enjoyment of the crowd, because this bout was a simple reenactment, not a true match. With his thumb raised to the sky, Claudius yielded to the chanting of the crowds.
“Mitte!”
Let him go—spare him. Cyrus helped the young gladiator to his feet, signaling the end of the match.
With his opponent at his back, Cyrus marched across the arena, to the gate at the other end, which was the exit, while Aurora stood within the entrance, waiting expectantly.
Her heartbeat quickened and her palms grew slick in anticipation of her impending performance, in fear of what was to come.
She still did not know who would be her opponent, but when the metal grate began to swing open, it no longer mattered. She curled her hand around the hilt of her sword and stepped into the arena, for the first time in many years.
Her sandaled feet crunched the sand beneath her, the deafening roar of the crowd pounding through her. Closing her eyes, she drew it in—the sounds, even the smells. Blood and sweat, blood and fear burned inside her chest, its bitter taste stinging her tongue.
She opened her eyes and took it all in.
The sand beneath her feet.
The frenzied crowd.
The smell of blood and sweat, the taste of blood and death.
* * * *
Cyrus had not seen Aurora, nor had he spoken to her since the eve before. To see her now—her face an impenetrable mask, stoic and determined to all who looked upon her—made his gut twist with knots. To probe deep within her eyes and glimpse the depths of her fear, made his heart lurch.
All who gazed upon her would see only the great legend they’d heard—of the beautiful Carthaginian warrior.
All who laid eyes upon her would not glimpse the fear, the terror—only Cyrus could see that.
He stood on the other end of the arena, his fingers curling around the patchwork of metal that formed the grate. He could not, he would not leave her.
When she glanced in his direction, he knew she sensed he was there. She could not see him through the gate, but he knew she could feel him, to the very core of her.
The trumpets sounded over the crazed chanting of the crowd.
Claudius stood, his arms wide. He was announcing her, introducing her to the people of Capena.
Cyrus could not hear a word for the crowd would not stop. If anything, they grew louder.
They had all waited to lay eyes upon her and they had not been disappointed.
She was a beautiful Amazon who could wield a sword as skillfully as any man—the only question was if she would.
When Claudius returned to his seat, Cyrus knew the match was soon to begin. He still did not know who she would face. He knew she did not know either.
Claudius was a bastard for that. She deserved to know who she was matched against, especially since her fate within the ludus, her very life even, rested on the outcome of this fight.
The gate began to open then, too slowly for Cyrus. The air within his lungs froze there until his chest was tight with dread.
A flash of silver blinded him, followed by a glimmer of gold. He squinted against the harsh light, the weight that had settled in the pit of his stomach grew heavier, dragging him down.
Anger coursed through him, until everything around him was bathed in a crimson fog of rage. Had Claudius been before him, Cyrus would have surely snapped his neck. Two black stallions thun
dered into the arena pulling a chariot of silver and bronze behind it, with a driver holding the reins, and an archer beside him.
The crowd went wild.
They erupted when a second team of black horses raced into the arena, pulling an identical chariot behind it.
These were not charioteers of the track who raced for sport, for neither of them wore the tunica colors of one of the four clubs. Cyrus did not know where Claudius had found them, and he cared not either. His only concern was for Aurora, who stood in the center of the arena, with only a bronze shield and iron sword against four charging horses, and two archers.
Her chances seemed impossible, and all of the crowd were on their feet, their eyes filled with bloodlust, focused solely on the woman in the center of the arena who had no hope of winning, no hope of survival.
What was Claudius about putting her up against such impossible odds?
It would seem their dominus wished for her death. Or quite possibly, he believed her legend—that she had never been defeated, that she’d never faced an opponent she could not best inside the arena. If she survived what appeared an insurmountable test, the people would clamor to see her again and again.
It was not a fair test.
The charioteers circled her as a cat would a mouse that was already dead. They stalked her, taunted her.
Cyrus could not breathe when the first archer let loose his arrow. She caught it with her shield, but barely recovered before the second archer struck.
She ducked then rolled, the arrow piercing the ground not even a palm’s length from her head. Aurora jumped to her feet, her eyes darting between the horses, the chariots that were constantly in motion.
“Attack,” he urged her quietly. “Do not wait for them to strike you down. Attack.”
As if she’d heard him, her next movements were aggressive. When the nearest chariot rolled past, she sprung into the air, her feet leaving the ground. The force with which she struck one archer with her metal shield was so hard that the man went sprawling to the ground.
He did not move. Cyrus imagined she’d knocked him unconscious.