I nodded curtly to Darius, then shoved away from the table, leaving my cup behind. I could not stand even being in the same room as the other men, the ones who had once used me like a common whore.
Pacing, tense, I made my way outside, to the training yard. Despite the long day that I had spent in the sun, I shivered.
The setting sun nearly blinded me, its rays streaming in white stripes straight into my face as it began to descend for the evening. I had spent even longer in its light today, and my skin was singed. I felt the heat suffuse my flesh but ignored the sting.
I had felt worse.
Most of the men had gone inside the dining hall of the gladiators’ quarters, upon which the great stone house that the pater familias inhabited was built. It was time for our evening meal, porridge and army bread, which to outsiders seemed like very little after our fierce work all day but was, in fact, our recommended diet.
Only one remained on the sand. I watched silently and, I was certain, unobserved as Christus worked his training sword against one of the giant bags of sand, as if it were a person—an enemy.
Where did his anger come from? Though he was new to our ludus, I knew that he had been a gladiator for nearly as long as I had—he should by now have accepted his fate. But watching his actions as he battled an invisible opponent, I saw quite clearly that the man I was watching felt constrained, imprisoned.
Alone, thinking himself unobserved, Christus released a ferocity that was unrivaled in our ludus—he seemed to be untainted by mercy, something that even I myself could not claim.
He should not have been so attractive, not when violence twisted his features as it did. In the fading evening light, the hair that lay cropped close to his head shimmered with the colors of honey, of nuts, and especially of flame, all teased out of the dark black. It was beautiful hair, or would have been had it sat on the head of any man besides himself. No, this warrior was not beautiful. He was too large, too fearsome . . . too damaged.
I was not sure where that last observation came from, but I knew that he would not welcome it. So I bit my tongue, remained quiet, and continued to watch.
As much of an irritation as his presence was to me, his form still pleased my eye, even more so when it was in motion, as it was right now.
The realization sent something not entirely unpleasant skittering over my skin. I bit my lip as I admitted to myself that the man made me want, made me desire, and as I attempted to swallow that morsel, the man himself looked up, saw me watching.
He looked beyond me quickly, toward the dining area, then shook his head in my direction, meaning, I thought, that I would be ill in the mind to disturb him. My eyes narrowed, and stubbornness had my mind made up to challenge him to a round or two.
He might have been bigger, but I was not the highest-ranked gladiator in this ludus for nothing.
Turning his back to me as if I did not exist, Christus deliberately resumed his sport. Even through my ill humor, I struggled when trying not to notice the way the sheen of sweat brought on by the physical exertion emphasized the raw strength that he held in his arms, his legs.
“Are you trying to prove yourself worthy of this brotherhood, Christus of House of Manius?” I recognized the oil that floated on the words before I saw Bavarius step onto the sand. The heat that the granules had absorbed during the day rose around the man’s feet in waves, and once again I thought that he seemed to represent pure evil. I recoiled physically, though I knew that he could not touch me where I stood, half hidden in the growing shadows of the balcony. Though the words spoken were muffled, I heard the derision and lack of respect that Bavarius laced his words with.
I saw Christus’ spine stiffen, just the smallest fraction—I was certain that even Bavarius himself, who stood close to the man, did not see that his own words had driven
Pacing, tense, I made my way outside, to the training yard. Despite the long day that I had spent in the sun, I shivered.
The setting sun nearly blinded me, its rays streaming in white stripes straight into my face as it began to descend for the evening. I had spent even longer in its light today, and my skin was singed. I felt the heat suffuse my flesh but ignored the sting.
I had felt worse.
Most of the men had gone inside the dining hall of the gladiators’ quarters, upon which the great stone house that the pater familias inhabited was built. It was time for our evening meal, porridge and army bread, which to outsiders seemed like very little after our fierce work all day but was, in fact, our recommended diet.
Only one remained on the sand. I watched silently and, I was certain, unobserved as Christus worked his training sword against one of the giant bags of sand, as if it were a person—an enemy.
Where did his anger come from? Though he was new to our ludus, I knew that he had been a gladiator for nearly as long as I had—he should by now have accepted his fate. But watching his actions as he battled an invisible opponent, I saw quite clearly that the man I was watching felt constrained, imprisoned.
Alone, thinking himself unobserved, Christus released a ferocity that was unrivaled in our ludus—he seemed to be untainted by mercy, something that even I myself could not claim.
He should not have been so attractive, not when violence twisted his features as it did. In the fading evening light, the hair that lay cropped close to his head shimmered with the colors of honey, of nuts, and especially of flame, all teased out of the dark black. It was beautiful hair, or would have been had it sat on the head of any man besides himself. No, this warrior was not beautiful. He was too large, too fearsome . . . too damaged.
I was not sure where that last observation came from, but I knew that he would not welcome it. So I bit my tongue, remained quiet, and continued to watch.
As much of an irritation as his presence was to me, his form still pleased my eye, even more so when it was in motion, as it was right now.
The realization sent something not entirely unpleasant skittering over my skin. I bit my lip as I admitted to myself that the man made me want, made me desire, and as I attempted to swallow that morsel, the man himself looked up, saw me watching.
He looked beyond me quickly, toward the dining area, then shook his head in my direction, meaning, I thought, that I would be ill in the mind to disturb him. My eyes narrowed, and stubbornness had my mind made up to challenge him to a round or two.
He might have been bigger, but I was not the highest-ranked gladiator in this ludus for nothing.
Turning his back to me as if I did not exist, Christus deliberately resumed his sport. Even through my ill humor, I struggled when trying not to notice the way the sheen of sweat brought on by the physical exertion emphasized the raw strength that he held in his arms, his legs.
“Are you trying to prove yourself worthy of this brotherhood, Christus of House of Manius?” I recognized the oil that floated on the words before I saw Bavarius step onto the sand. The heat that the granules had absorbed during the day rose around the man’s feet in waves, and once again I thought that he seemed to represent pure evil. I recoiled physically, though I knew that he could not touch me where I stood, half hidden in the growing shadows of the balcony. Though the words spoken were muffled, I heard the derision and lack of respect that Bavarius laced his words with.
I saw Christus’ spine stiffen, just the smallest fraction—I was certain that even Bavarius himself, who stood close to the man, did not see that his own words had driven
Similar Books
