He was nothing compared to Lucan.
Lucan of House Vulpinius.
Alession wanted to lick the taste of victory off his lips. The boy would snare as many hearts as he did opponents. And when he had the love of thousands, he would die in the arena for the pleasure of the Empress.
Alession strove to keep the hunger off his own face. When had he become the kind of man who reveled in the suffering of other men? He had done what was necessary to avoid the pits of the Grand Theatre himself.
“Love me and live,”
she had said, piercing his soul with those blind eyes.
“Defy me and die.”
Alession did not love her. But he did not fancy dying either.
The skim of Stratos’s hand as he took the ebon blade jolted Alession back to himself. Aware that his mask had slipped, he was quick to cover with a smile.
Skepticism darkened Stratos’s eyes. “This will give me dominion over his soul—just like the last one?”
“Yes. The Ebon brand is unbreakable. He is yours. Your slave eternal.”
“Good.” Stratos turned his attention to Alession. “Perhaps we could sample him together.”
Alession raked Stratos with a lustful gaze, playing to the vulnerability the lesser man gave him. He knew Stratos desired him—had ever since they’d both been lowly
lictors
together, years ago. Alession had caught every look, every glance, every time Stratos ran his tongue over his lips in anticipation of tasting Alession’s skin. Now he used it to lure him in.
And deny him.
“Perhaps another time.” He forced a rueful expression. “The sorcery…the slavecraft tires me.”
“Very well,” Stratos answered quickly, as though not wishing to seem overeager.
Alession could not help needling. “With the proper training, that boy in there will be a great champion.” He let the next sentence slide easily. “He could perchance win the Grand Melee.”
His heart pounding, Alession left his words there as prettier bait than his body. The Empress wanted the boy loved and adored before he was broken. Alession would see to it that happened.
Better the boy be broken in the arena than me.
That was the truth of his existence. The extent of his “love” for her.
What did he care for one novice retiarii? Slaves existed to make their masters’ lives better. Lucan of House Vulpinius was just such a slave.
The light of desire darkening Stratos’s eyes said he shared that thought. Victory, glory, wealth. It was no small honor to be the master of the Melee champion. “I already have a trainer in mind.” His smile widened cruelly. “Hektor Actaeon.”
Alession hid his shock. Hektor Actaeon had once been Stratos’s plaything, until Stratos had tired of him. And now, the quaestor wanted to hire Hektor to train the boy?
His mood definitely souring now, Alession gave Stratos his most withering stare. “You were warned against further tampering with Hektor Actaeon.”
Stratos had the good graces to at least look offended. “Tampering? My good consul, you wound me. I seek only a good pairing for my slave eternal.”
Something in his tone chilled Alession, and the sudden desire to quit the darkness of the Claim for the brightness of his council chambers seized him fiercely. If Stratos meddled once more with Hektor Actaeon, he would find himself answering to the Empress’s justice. Alession need not worry. Stratos was too much of a coward to risk death as a Spectacle in the arena.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Alession slipped into the shadows, leaving Stratos pacing before the dungeon door, muttering to himself in the gloom, planning glories and triumphs at the cost of Lucan’s suffering.
Alession reveled in the suffering of other men because he had to.
Stratos did so because he wanted to.
Chapter One
FOR THE EMPRESS
Arena, the land of the Desert Kings
Ruled by a blind Empress
Whose lust for blood
Was legend and lore
—Iona Lucia, House of Lucia, the Artists
The Empress had decreed that today’s Spectacle would be sans mercy, and by late afternoon, her Grand Theatre ran red with blood. The gore was so thick even the fresh sand that the cripples strewed about could not cover all the carnage. Between bouts, the bodies of the glorious dead were hooked and dragged by the jackal-helmed priests of the Doomsayer. In back alleys, the vanquished would be stripped, their armor auctioned to relic hunters, leeches, and lepers alike. Great shares of bronze quadrans and
sextans
, and even the occasional
denarius
would fill the coffers of the Doomsayer’s Fane tonight.
Yes, the dead were the purview of the Doomsayer, but Hektor of House Actaeon was still very much alive. At least for the moment.
Five gladiators advanced on him, hemming him in with bloodied weapons. Sweat streaked their muscles, and they took mincing steps on the burning-hot sand. Hektor’s shortspear lay outside their circle, tangled in the weighted net of his last opponent. This time, he had been deprived of his longspear.
Damn the Empress and her festering handicaps!
And woe to her gladiators when she grew bored.
Hektor ignored the scorching heat that strung his muscles with fatigue and the sweat that stung his eyes. His arm ached from the weight of his tower shield. He had lost his helmet in the last bout, and his hair had come loose from its thong. Now it hung like a black mane, cascading down over his shoulders to heighten his savage appeal. The masses loved it. Their cheers rose to deafening thunder as they came to their feet for the finale of today’s Spectacle. For them, the extra exertion of their furor was no concern. High in the stands, beneath the great crimson awning, they were shielded from the sun’s oppression.
Exposed in the middle of the amphitheatre, Hektor was not so fortunate. Every movement depleted a little more of his strength, each step on the sands leeching his energies. But the heat was the least of his worries. If he did not procure a weapon… He gave his shortspear a cursory glance. The warrior nearest it—a secutor whose visored helm gleamed with the wetness of red oxide—put a foot on it. For all his bulk, he was lithe and quick. A gladius glinted behind his rectangular shield. He would use his speed.
From over the top of his tower shield, Hektor returned the smile, but it was more a baring of teeth than a grin. He had fought hard to become the primus palus. He would not fall so easily.
He feinted forward as though to charge in for his weapon.
His sudden movement broke the secutor’s balance. The man misjudged, thrusting too soon. Neatly, Hektor stepped in, daring his opponent’s blows. The gladius rang once, twice off the bronze of Hektor’s shield. Another step in. The secutor’s retreat was not hasty enough. Hektor thrust down with the shield, crushing his opponent’s bare foot, and then smashed the rim into his face.
The shattering of bones and teeth was loud—the amphitheatre specifically designed so every moan, every scream, ever crunch of bone and snap of sinew reverberated. The masses shrieked approval as the secutor fell into the dust, his face a scarlet ruin as he choked to death on his own blood.
Hektor spared a glance high to the ruling House of Zaerus, to the balcony where the Empress sat amid billowing white curtains, a dozen servants and sycophants crowded about to do her bidding. At this distance he could not make out her features, only her coloring—the glint of sun on her pale, perfect skin, the deep chestnut-brown of her hair, and a flash of jade-green eyes.
In ten years, she has not aged a day.
In all her beauty, how he loathed her.
Sorcerous witch.
Men murdered each other for her amusement. As show of her power.
The four other gladiators circled, the death throes of their fifth stealing some of their bravado and setting their postures in grim lines. Hektor was thankful for the great crested helms that hid their faces. These men were his comrades, his brothers-in-arms. They all knew when they entered the arena that their lives were forfeit. They came here to die, and death connected them.
Hektor would honor the bravery of these men as he did all others who opposed him. By sending them to the Doomsayer’s Abyss.
His gaze flicked from his fallen shortspear to each of the men who sought his death.
After nearly six years in the Empress’s Theatre, he knew it only took one wrong move—a wrong step or wrong twist—and it would be his life pumping out in the sand.
Such was the fate of a slave born to the gladiator pits of Arena, the Land of the Desert Kings.
A flash of steel on his left stole his attention. He jerked toward it, raising his shield. Too late, he realized the ploy, saw the feint, and felt the real attack winging in from the right. A glimpse of the retiarius gladiator, and then the impact of the net staggered Hektor, the weights slapping around the sides of his shield, wrapping up his left arm and shoulder.
Pinned, his shield was useless, a block of wood and bronze he could no longer maneuver. The retiarius leaped, jabbing forward with the trident. Hektor danced back, heaving up with the fouled shield, desperate for any kind of protection at all—the difference between survival and a bloody death.
The trident caught the rim, and the retiarius twisted. The weapon shrieked off Hektor’s shield and stabbed over it. Pain pierced his shoulder, the prongs digging in. He cried out as the retiarius dragged back on him, using prongs and net to pull him off-balance.
From either side came the three others—myrmidons all, muscles sleek and bulging, their crests garish atop their graven helms. Their weapons, exotic and unique to each of them, seemed to carve the sunlight into dazzling rays. They specialized in leaving a man alive as long as possible. They would play with Hektor, make a show of him.
It was the only reason they hadn’t swarmed in to finish him.
Gritting his teeth, Hektor dug in his heels, ignoring the scorch of sand on his bare feet, ignoring the blatting of iron horns and the announcement of the arena herald, “The primus palus is besieged!” The resulting rush of thunder from the crowd washed over him, buoyed him.
And as the retiarius yanked harder, Hektor went with it, dashing forward with the momentum, bashing the man with his net-covered shield. The man came off his feet and hurtled backward into the sand. The cord from his wrist to the net snapped taut.
With grim satisfaction, Hektor began to drag him in, his shoulders screaming, blood streaking his chest. The smaller man dug in as Hektor had, but Hektor was larger and more muscular—a provocator gladiator of Actaeon, House of Warriors, known for skill and showmanship.
The three myrmidons advanced, but the barest gesture from the Empress halted them. Hektor did not pause to wonder. Clearly he had her fickle favor this day.
He reeled the retiarius in. Desperate, the man scrambled for the dagger at his belt. The dull glint of iron was not lost on Hektor. If the man cut the cord, he would be free. With a shout, Hektor heaved back on the shield, yanking the man the remaining five feet. A calculated risk. He exposed his own chest.
Smoothly, the retiarius stabbed for his ribs.
Hektor sidestepped, let it go by.
A thin line of fire printed a warning across his ribs. A trickle of blood mixed with his sweat. He grabbed the other man’s hand and bent his wrist, leveraging the knife away by its guard.
The retiarius looked shocked when Hektor daggered him in the throat. Blood spurted onto the sand, and the cheers became deafening.
Sans mercy.
Hektor regretted it, but it was not his choice.
It was the Empress’s.
She gestured again, and the myrmidon waded into battle.
Hektor backed off, trying desperately to free his shield as he took stock of his opponents. The myrmidon with the twin maces was tall, a burly man whose heavy bulk outmassed Hektor’s. The obvious leader, he wore a golden helm with a lion’s head, the crest a crimson mane. The second myrmidon was smaller, a lithe brother to the dead secutor, with his olive skin and twin katar, his griffin-head helm plumed with peacock feathers. The third bore no helm and little armor. Instead, he danced and cavorted low to the ground, moving with the sinuous speed of the wild beasts whose skins he wore. His bladed chain kicked up sand and flicked like a cat’s restless tail.
Bloodied, fatigued, Hektor backed away, the dagger his only weapon.
The three warriors formed a semicircle, trying to corral him back to the edge of the amphitheatre, where death upon jagged steel and iron awaited. Hektor did not have to look to see the broken blades embedded in the walls. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of weapons had been broken in the Empress’s Grand Theatre, their shards gathered and forged by the arena smiths into the Hail, a deadly perimeter of point and edge.
A pitfall for the unwary.
Nearing the wall for any reason was risky. Some of the wealthier spectators brought man-catchers, vicious polearms they used to grab and poke fighters who strayed too close to the wall. The praetorian guard allowed it. It made for good sport and riled the masses.
The masses. They were the key. Jaded, bloodthirsty, they had seen Spectacle after gory Spectacle. With each victory, it became more and more difficult to gain their favor, and yet gaining their favor was everything. The difference between life and death.
The three myrmidon came on, the beast-man dancing forward, his chain flicking and cutting the sand, keeping Hektor at bay, lashing at him. The other two saved their strength. Their weapons required close quarters. They would rush him when he flagged.
He let the grimness of his face tell them he was desperate as he drew them in. Slowly, step by step, they backed him to the glittering blades of the Hail. Twenty feet from the wall, he hesitated, and the weighted end of the chain crushed down on his shoulder.
Hektor staggered, his fingers touching the sand.
“Our primus palus is besieged again!”
He felt rather than saw the myrmidons move. They dashed in, weapons flashing.
Hektor waited, one breath, two, grasping a handful of sand. They came just as he’d thought—maces in the middle, chain and katar on either side. The big man attacked first, bellowing, his lion’s-head helm a golden glare in the sun. Through the open mouth, Hektor glimpsed the man’s eyes.