Wolf’s Empire: Gladiator (6 page)

“I need this. I was told you'd understand, that you'd lost someone unjustly and bore no love for House Sertorian.”

His face hardened but didn't betray any emotion. “I don't teach beginners.”

“I'm no beginner. Let me try out, you'll see.”

“The Ludus Magnus is for serious athletes. If you're injured, you can't go running to papa and complain. When a gladiator swears the oath, it's with total commitment, there's no going back. How would that work? You an aristocrat and me a commoner? How could you take my orders? And even if you make the cut, the men won't make it easy for you.”

“It doesn't matter. I won't stop.”

“Won't stop until what?”

“Until I'm the best.”

He didn't look impressed.

“I heard that you were the only trainer in the capital who heeded his own mind, that's why I came to you,” I said. “Now I can see you're a coward, afraid of what the old men in the Senate will think of you.”

He shrugged and turned to the gladiators running through their drills. “Lenticulus! There's a girl over here who says you're too slow with your spear.”

“Come to my bed tonight,” the man called to me, “and I'll show you a spear that will be more than enough to satisfy you.”

“You'll have to suffer that kind of ill-mannered talk and much worse if you train here,” Marcus said to me. “You see, this is hardly the place for a lady.”

“If you can last a round against me, you can show me whatever you like,” I yelled at the spearman. Striding past Marcus and stepping into the practice ring, I let Orbis fly. The spearman managed to deflect my first cast, but by then I'd closed the gap. I snatched my weapon out of the air and recast, and within twenty seconds, Lenticulus lay bleeding on the ground, both his hamstring and spear tip neatly severed.

“Not bad,” Marcus said as the medic rushed to treat my injured opponent. “You're a left-hander; that will give you an advantage. Make it hard for your opponent to work out which way the discus will fly.”

“You'll train me?”

“I've got to tell you, it will be a big pain in the ass having you on board, I'll never hear the end of it from the other owners, and these gladiators will complain about having a woman fighting, they're very superstitious. But you know what I like more than anything? Winning matches and earning the prize money. That means I can keep doing what I love. You worked over Lenticulus good and proper, and he's one of my best. You could be a winning horse. The odds in the gaming pool will be stacked against you from the outset, so I'll win some money betting on you when they put you up against second-raters, and if you survive long enough to get a few matches under your belt, the crowds will swarm to see a noble Viridian gladiatrix. Win and keep winning, and we'll get on just fine. You lose one match and you're out, even if the crowd spares your life. If you talk back to me or complain, you're out. If you're late for practice, you're out. Understand?”

I could barely contain my excitement. “I thank you.”

“I'll have to teach you to control your weapon, teach it to retract its edge. We can't have you wounding my fighters in practice. The only question is, when the crowd makes their call, can you deliver the death sentence to a gladiator you've wounded?”

“I'm totally focused on my goal. Nothing will stand in my way.”

“All right. Training starts at five
A.M.
tomorrow. And don't thank me—now is when we'll see who's the coward. Personally, I don't think you'll last a week.”

“The art of the discus is all about anticipation and timing,” Marcus said to me on my first training session. “Your weapon has a limited intelligence. It will always find the shortest path back to your hand, but you must help it. To use it effectively, you must know not where your opponent is but where he will be when the discus strikes. Remember, while you're waiting for the discus to return to your hand, you are unarmed. Sometimes your weapon will ricochet off an object or another opponent. Before you even cast the discus, you must have planned its course and anticipated your enemy's attack. To do that, you must know all of the other weapons, their strengths and weaknesses, you must study your opponent before each match, calculate all of the potential strategies and ranges, or your discus will make a laughingstock of you.”

After the first week, Marcus permitted me to sign the gladiator's contract and swear the oath of the novice trio, solemnly promising that I would obey him and endure burning, flogging, and even death in order to learn his art. In turn, he officially accepted me into his school, becoming my lanista—my master and trainer.

I was placed on a diet of calcium-rich stalactite powders to strengthen my bones and prevent them breaking, and I practiced with the team every day, before and after school. My male cousins mocked me for playing a man's game, and my female relatives, whom I'd never bonded with due to their incessant prattling about fashion and matchmaking, made an extra effort to ostracize me, turning away to huddle and whisper if I passed them. They'd heard all sorts of gossip about me, most of it true.

Gladiators mixed with the undercurrents of society. I learned that very quickly. Thieves and criminals, disgraced soldiers, ex-prisoners—they were always hanging about the gyms. Instead of shunning them like any well-bred young lady should, I befriended the ones who supplemented their arena income by engaging in even less respectable activities. From those men, and even a few women, I learned the art of scaling walls and breaking codes, gaining access to sealed rooms, and combat techniques that were deadly to opponents in the arena and on the street.

During training time with Marcus, if I didn't get a move the first time, I'd keep at it until I'd mastered it or twisted an ankle, sprained a finger, burned or cut myself. If I fell from exhaustion, Marcus would push me onto my back with his boot. “Get up. You said you wanted to be the best, so get up. You don't get to be tired. No exhaustion, no giving up, no yielding. You want to fight because you're a natural, you like exercising your innate power, but I'm going to push you until you hate being here. Until each day you will wake up in pain and fear at the thought of coming here. Then, if you can stick it out, you'll come to a new place, beyond like and dislike, where you breathe battle, where the fighting mind saturates your every move. You must be the loosed arrow, no hesitation, a straight line between you and your target. Then, perhaps, one day you'll be counted a real gladiator.”

No complaints, I never spoke back to him. He wasn't a cruel man, and I saw his gift for what it was—Marcus was the whetstone against which I sharpened myself until I could cut through anything that stood in my way.

The men would hit me with their wooden swords during practice, leaving egg-size bruises on my back, arms, legs, and breasts. They'd goad me, insult me, knock me unconscious, and I kept going until, one by one, they fell to my discus and I earned their respect. Except for Marcus. I could never beat him, nor could any of the others in the gym. I asked the other gladiators why he didn't give up being a lanista and enter the arena as a competitor. Even at his age he could have been a champion. They told me that although there was a rule that allowed the lanista of a gym automatic entry into any bout with any opponent (a rule originated to give impoverished trainers a chance to stave off bankruptcy and lure new students by displaying their skills), Marcus had refused every offer to fight for money since returning to Rome.

“Your suffering has given you divine fire,” Marcus said at the end of my trial period. “You still don't have a firm grasp on your temper, but you're ready for the arena. Remember, let your tragedy fuel you, but be careful not to let the fire consume you. A thousand times more gladiators have died from overconfidence than have reached the Ludi Romani.”

*   *   *

I
OWED
M
ARCUS EVERYTHING,
and if he told me not to fight, I'd have to honor that, but turning our shared history over in my mind had done the trick. I'd worked out what he was holding back, and I knew I had to ask him for one last favor.

IV

T
HE EMPEROR'S COUSIN ISSUED
a bloodcurdling scream as he unsuccessfully warded off the vicious attacks of a single scaled Sauromatae—six feet of teeth and claws, two legs and a balancing tail that allowed the barbarian to move in swift zigzag patterns. The warding field surrounding Bucco Numerius' armor took the brunt of the assault.

“Look at him carry on,” Marcus said. “You think he'd lost an arm.”

Just as it looked as if the emperor's cousin was going to be overwhelmed, referees with plasma brands accompanied by aides with attack dogs moved in to drive the lizard man back. The shining green transmission lights of the media spherae suddenly vanished; the Colosseum editor had ordered the match be brought to an end to spare the emperor embarrassment. Even though it was the editor's job not only to sculpt the events but also to protect the emperor's public reputation, I'd wager he never had a choice in Bucco Numerius' appearance. That would have been at the bold insistence of Bucco himself, the same man who filled the arena with his cries of fear and pain.

“A lot of noise for a handful of bruises, isn't that what you used to say to me when I started out? I've come a long way since then. I've earned my place in the team.”

“You have.”

“And as a lanista of one of the great schools, you have special privileges. You have the right to compete without waiting for the outcome of the draw. You have the right to insert yourself into any contest, even this one, and choose your opponent.” I reached out and touched him on the arm. “Choose me, Marcus. Enter us in the next match.”

He was old—I guessed he was in his forties. Fighting him would be the toughest match of my life, but I could take him. Arena teachers always keep some techniques back, and there was no way I'd learned everything Marcus had to teach. He was a walking encyclopedia of fighting methods, but I was young and I could ignore the bruises, aches, and pains from yesterday's match. My speed and flexibility would give me the edge.

He coughed and turned from me, pretending something in the stands had caught his attention, unwilling to meet my gaze.

“What?” I demanded.

“What if you do win and the crowd calls for my head? Could you even do it?”

“If I have to, but it won't come to that. I've got a reputation for sparing my opponent; they won't expect me to kill you.”

“You've got away with that for a long time, but it won't wash today. If the emperor gives the thumbs-down, the deed has to be done. There's no refusing, no standing on pride or principles, not if you want to keep your head. Besides…”

“Besides what?”

“Nothing. Listen, it's not going to work.”

“Besides what?”

“Besides, I would have to
let
you win, and even if the crowd decided to spare me, no man would come and train under me if I were publicly beaten by a woman. My career would be over.”

His words were like a slap in the face. Marcus was probably right about his career and the stupidity of men, but that's not what hurt. It was that after years of training and camaraderie, he still saw me as a silly girl playing at war. It never occurred to him that I might beat him in the arena, let alone win the Ludi Romani itself. That's why he wouldn't back me.

“I hadn't thought of that,” I said. “I'm sorry, please forget I said anything.”

I owed Marcus everything. If he didn't want to do this thing for me, then I had to accept it. Not willing to disgrace myself with tears, I went to leave. The way back to the tunnel was blocked by a crush of people, and I couldn't pass. Some fans were mobbing one of the gladiators near the gate, creating a human roadblock. They were mostly pathetic young girls, fawning over some local hero. Pushing through them as I tried to pass, I caught sight of the object of their affection. It was Gaius Sertorius Crassus, champion gladiator when he wasn't serving as the Sertorian propaganda minister. He was one of the men I'd sworn to kill.

The sight of Crassus, surrounded by his followers, his place in the Ludi Romani secured thanks to his status and gender, stirred the fire inside. Once, when I was a girl, I'd overheard one of the house matriarchs at the Academy, a tutor of no small ability, discussing the rise of a lazy male teacher through the hierarchy.
He has a penis, Livia. What can you do? You know how it is—have a penis, get a promotion.
Anger boiled up inside of me. Two years of hard work and here I was, back at the beginning.

I quickly turned away before Crassus could see me and bumped right into Marcus, who was following behind me.

“You know him?” Marcus asked.

“By name only,” I lied.

“So you should. He's the two-time champion of the Talonite arena. They say he's the best javelineer in the galaxy, a natural.”

“I doubt that,” I said, thinking back to the time when I had Crassus pinned up against the wall at the Academy, my discus at his throat.

“Look how he moves. He's a real gladiator, all right.”

Marcus meant that Crassus was what I was not. Crassus had killed, fought to survive against the odds. Marcus respected him. When I tried to leave again, Crassus saw me and grinned. He offered a slight bow in my direction, and all the girls surrounding him looked my way to see who'd caught his eye. I pushed past Marcus, heading for a different exit. I'd never felt like such a fool, and I knew that if I didn't get out of there that second, I'd burst out in tears, or kill someone, or both.

“Hey, Accala. Where have you been? The early bird catches the worm, hey?”

My idiot cousin Darius walked toward me, the bow-and-arrow man who had been so quick and willing to snap up my spot. Marcus was his trainer as well, though he wasn't ranked nearly as highly as me. “Not another word,” I warned.