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 thundered 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.
But when the horses careened out of control and at the last minute veered off, trampling him, Cyrus reasoned he would never move again.
The crowd gave a flurry of cheers.
More blood. They demanded. More death.
Though one chariot was without its archer, it was still dangerous. The horses could crush her easily, and the drivers seemed intent upon doing just that.
Aurora moved with a fluid grace this time, her every motion skilled, precise, strategic.
She inserted herself purposely between the paths of the two chariots. Spooked, the horses would not be so foolish as to collide, so at the last moment, they lurched in opposite directions. The resounding crash sent the remaining archer soaring through the air.
He tumbled to the ground with a loud thump, and Aurora was there. She struck him down, her blade spearing his chest. Others would think her bloodthirsty, savage even. But despite the distance between them, Cyrus could see her soul within her eyes. She winced, and moisture gathered behind her lids.
Cyrus began to relax—somewhat. Two drivers remained. Her odds were steadily improving.
Aurora had only a few moments before one or both of the drivers left their chariot and came after her. Cyrus heartbeat quickened, and he saw it in her expression, the moment she changed tactics.
Reaching for the discarded bow and a handful of arrows, she armed the weapon and let loose a flurry of arrows—one coming after the other. She struck one driver in the back, and he crumpled to the floor of the chariot before being thrown to the ground.
The other driver she missed entirely, and he was quick to realize that if he did not leave the chariot she would send another hail of arrows.
Tugging on the reigns, he slowed the chariot until he was able to hop out.
Whether a criminal sentenced to death, or a decorated gladiator, every person who set foot within the arena was armed with a weapon. Sometimes it was a crude one, sometimes it was made of wood, but the laws of the arena demanded everyone be allowed to fight, to defend themselves, in some manner.
The rider had been furnished with a blade, and he unsheathed it as he neared Aurora, while she stooped down to grasp hers in hand, casting the bow aside.
Cyrus’ spirits soared. Aurora was more skilled than anyone he’d ever known when it came to a fight with the blade. A one-on-one battle, and she was certain of victory. Cyrus believed this until the battle began, but then he watched the woman before him as if he’d never seen her before.
The Aurora he knew fought with her heart, her entire soul.
This one was a shell of herself, empty and hollow. Her movements were stilted and slow as if she’d been poisoned or wounded. He knew it was neither. When he caught a glimpse of her face, the dread that had clawed its way inside his gut at the beginning of the match, returned once again, this time more insistent than before.
She’d told him she was fine.
She’d assured him she’d quieted the demons that still plagued her.
She’d lied.
Aurora was frozen, locked within the shadows of her past. She was a ghost of herself, her sword meeting that of the one across from her. She fought him half-heartedly, barely missing the edge of his blade with each strike.
It was his eyes.
Liquid brown and ferocious, yet still so full of fear, so full of life.
She swallowed the lump within her throat before it could choke her.
Her belly churned, and she gasped for air, the nausea making her lightheaded and weak.