In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal (15 page)

The pureness of that moment seared him. Hektor could not…
Not again.

His mind turned to Leander, but his heart stayed with Lucan.

* * * *

Stratos unlocked the novice’s chains and let the boy slide into his arms. Lucan was wrung out and shaking, and Stratos suspected that only half of the trembling was from being claimed. He had seen Hektor’s face when the gladiator stormed up from the cells. He had been spoiling for a fight. Stratos had stayed out of his way. But he knew where the man was going. It was the prerogative of the primus palus to challenge himself against flesh and blood where he so desired. The ranks of noxii would be lessened in number today, and tomorrow’s Diversions would be poorer for it.

No matter. The masses wanted the Spectacles. The Diversions were just that—whettings to an appetite that would never be sated.

Soon his plan would come to fruition. But it couldn’t if Hektor did not have his heart in training the boy. From what Stratos had seen earlier of Hektor cheering the boy on, caring for him after he was injured…
There must be true feelings between them.

And if Hektor loved the boy, he wouldn’t be able to kill him. Even under the spell binding of the Ebon, he had fought not to harm Leander.

In the end though, he fell. They always fell.

Chapter Seven

WINS & LOSSES

Every gladiator in Arena

Suffered wins and losses

—Ione Lucia, House of Lucia, the Artists

The days passed, but their passing did nothing to allay Lucan’s confusion. He didn’t know what to think, what to feel, so he let his body react, trying to glide from offense to defense and back. The way Hektor had taught him.

But with Hektor as his opponent, Lucan could not help but feel outclassed.

The hot sun blared down on the training courtyards of the Ludus Magnii. All around them, students and mentors battled, drilled, and trained. Typically, Lucan would try to steal glimpses of the others, to catch snippets of good advice or watch how a certain novice fought. These past days, though, he’d needed every ounce of attention to deal with Hektor.

Today should have been different. After all, today was Lucan’s first solo Spectacle.

If he won today, there would be no more Diversions, no more simple pairings. This would determine his fate in the arena, whether he would be Named Lucan of House Vulpinius or stay simply “Golden”—the boy with the fair looks and fair skills.

Sand kicked up beneath their bare feet as he and Hektor vied against each other. Not that it was much of a contest. Hektor had been supremely fierce since
that
morning.

Today was no different. He seemed not to care that he should only be warming Lucan up, getting him limber and ready for his first bout in the Empress’s Theatre.

No, instead, he fought as though he wanted to run Lucan ragged, corralling the novice one way, only to charge in and cut him off. Normally he left some room for Lucan to improve, to show his mettle, but since that morning…

Lucan had tried to speak to Hektor, but the primus palus would not have it. Now his sky-blue eyes were stormy, his grip tense on his gladius. His moves too were jerky, not the usual smooth, predatory moves of a veteran of the arena.

The way he had looked at Lucan, at the Ebon burning on Lucan’s chest…

Lucan glanced down. Not so much as a shadow on his skin. The Ebon had not bothered him since that morn. Had Hektor indeed burned it out of him? Why couldn’t they at least speak about it? It was a slaver’s mark, to be certain, but were they all not slaves?

Frustrated, Lucan thrust, and Hektor sidestepped. He grabbed Lucan’s wrist and dragged him forward. Off-balance, Lucan stumbled, and Hektor kicked his legs out, a vicious move that took Lucan down hard on the sand. He spluttered, heaving for breath.

Was Hektor upset about the Spectacle? Lucan could not help being put in the first set of bouts. His division was close to the Diversions, true, but the odds-makers had billed it as a real Spectacle.

Hektor’s shadow fell across him, and then his hand clamped heavily on the nape of Lucan’s neck. The forcefulness jolted Lucan, made him remember the rough handling of that morning. His body stiffened of its own accord, remembering the way Hektor had bent him over, his large body blanketing Lucan’s. The way he had caressed his hole and then shoved into him with a grunt.

Lucan wanted more, and he wanted it now.

Almost more than he wanted to prove his worth in the theatre.

A low moan of need escaped him. He turned, caught Hektor’s gaze. Would Hektor fuck Lucan before his first Spectacle? Lucan hoped so. The seed of a veteran fighter was a potent brew. To go to his first Spectacle buzzing and pleasantly sore, and with Hektor’s cum deep inside him… Lucan would be sure to win.

If they left now, they could get away with it. Lucan moaned just thinking about it. Hektor plowing him in the sand of the side arena.

And then Hektor was on him.

Twin impacts to Lucan’s back knocked the wind and the desire out of him. He rolled, trying to get away, but Hektor was faster. He stomped on Lucan’s hand, not hard enough to break it but hard enough to pin him helpless to the sand.

Lucan fought. His trident had fallen only a foot away. He reached. Hektor kicked it away, and his sword tip pressed down on Lucan’s throat.

“I yield.” Lucan went still.

All around them, a smattering of applause from the other novices at Hektor’s speed, his skill. One by one, they turned back to their own practices.

But Hektor did not back off. His gaze was focused on Lucan’s pectoral muscle, darkness flooding his face. Shame festooned within Lucan. He resisted the urge to cover his skin, though the mark remained invisible.
Can he see it?
And with that thought, the Ebon awoke anew. Now the burn ached inside him, like a wound beneath the skin, worrying at his muscles.

Slowly, Hektor took his sword away. Lucan rubbed at the raw spot on his throat, and it blossomed into a trickle of blood. He looked incredulously at Hektor.
What in the Doomsayer’s Abyss
…? Had Hektor been really trying to hurt him before his first Spectacle?

But the primus palus only toed at Lucan’s trident and then kicked it up into his hand. He flipped it and held it out to Lucan, hilt first. “Don’t lose.”

Lucan’s hand trembled, his fury building inside him. How dare Hektor treat him like a child? He took the weapon, careful of the prongs, careful not to slice his mentor’s hand.
I ought to cut him. It would serve him true.

But his heart ached just thinking of that. He could not harm Hektor.
Well, at least that makes one of us.
For a moment, he stood staring at the man, and then he strode off toward the stairwells that would lead him to the vomitoria.

His long strides took him quickly. He barely heard Hektor behind him, his sandals casually slapping the stones as though they dallied through a field of daisies. Lucan’s heart raced and his mouth was suddenly as dry as his hands were sweaty.

He tried not to think, tried only to move, until he found himself before the long hallway that led to the barrier, the Gates of Death. And beyond, the Empress’s Theatre. The roar of the crowd thundered all around, rattling his bones, his teeth, his nerves. His limbs shook, his trident felt heavy in his hand.

Hektor’s hand fell to Lucan’s shoulder. “Remember to size him up before dashing in. Don’t waste energy. The heat will fatigue you; it will sap your strength. Fatigue is the true enemy. Fatigue and fear.”

Lucan bit back his scoff, and only because Hektor could kick his ass. He didn’t need Hektor’s help right now. Damned man. Why did he have to be so gorgeous, so unattainable? Lucan couldn’t even glance at him. Instead, he looked down at his feet.

“Lucan.”

“What?”

“May Lady Luck Viltheleon bless you with victory.”

He couldn’t answer.

Walking down into the darkness by himself only enhanced his loneliness. For a time, he felt Hektor’s gaze on his back, and then he knew the dimness swallowed him. Dust rained down from above, and the sounds of the crowd grew deafening as out on the field the herald began to announce the bouts.

If only Hektor had taken him, had shown him one inch of desire.

And then the barriers broke, the grates rattled up, and the Gates of Death opened before him.

* * * *

Lucan was losing, and it was all Hektor’s fault.

Hektor cursed himself as he watched the other novice—the one they called Jackal Smile—corner Lucan, nearly driving him into the glittering blades of the Hail. Only Lucan’s fast footwork and lithe agility kept him from being skewered. The masses shrieked and roared bloodthirsty approval.

At least someone approves.

Jackal Smile circled, that ever-present grin on his dark face. He taunted and danced, making passes with his blade, keeping his flank guarded with that rectangle shield. But it was all in good cheer, as though he knew a secret no one else did. On Lucan’s best day, he could have defeated Jackal.

But today was not Lucan’s best day.

Hektor swore under his breath.
What was I thinking? Working him so hard? Stepping on his hand?
Novices died in the Spectacles. The least trained, they wore no armor and had the highest rate of attrition.
I may have just sent him to his death.

If only Lucan hadn’t rushed in.

If only…

Jackal’s sword was as quick as his grin. He slashed Lucan a good one across his shins, and blood painted the sand. Lucan was flagging. The wound, the heat, the fatigue, the stress of the roaring crowd…

He rushed in to spite you.
Hektor’s guilt rose within him. If Lucan died—

No. Hektor would not think about that.

Jackal struck again, knocking Lucan to the sand, dazing him. The crowd railed wildly, the plebes standing up. Hektor knew the odds-makers would be watching shrewdly, wondering if they had twice misjudged Lucan of House Vulpinius.

Come on, come on, Hektor chanted silently.

Shaking off the stupor, Lucan scrambled to his feet. He parried, but it came too slow. Jackal struck him again, a blow to the shoulder that rocked Lucan. He stumbled, lost his trident. Hektor watched as the golden weapon fell forgotten in the sand.

Lucan was on his knees.

The masses screamed for blood. Jackal Smile dashed in for the kill.

But Lucan rose up, his hand going for the
pugio
dagger at his belt, and swiped across the boy’s stomach. At the last second, Jackal danced back, and instead of spilling his guts, Lucan opened him to the whites. His face paled, and he grabbed his stomach as blood poured over his hands. He collapsed forward.

And now the crowd’s cheer changed. “Golden! Golden! Golden!”

If there was one thing they enjoyed, it was a good reversal.

And Lucan stood over his fallen foe for the first time, the death-dagger in his hands, and looked to the Empress’s balcony.

She had come out today, a day with a perfect cerulean-blue sky. And she stared down with her blind eyes upon the Arena. She closed them, perhaps taking in all the cheers and jeers, the shouts and catcalls. The crowd was wild for blood.

She gave them blood.

Her palm turned upward. To the sky. The sign of death. There would be no mercy for Jackal Smile, no Victor’s Claim.

Lucan paled, his face stricken as he saw her decree.

Do it, Hektor urged him silently. Lucan’s first kill. He had never taken a life. Hektor’s heart sank when the boy threw down his gladius.

The Empress closed her fist, and the praetorian guard rushed in.

Chapter Eight

PUNISHMENTS

Every crime in Arena

Had its punishment

Arbitrary, it was decided daily

By the Empress herself

—Nefertari Amon Ankh of House Actaeon, the Warriors

It was to be the whipping post, and there would be no spectators.

Of all Arena’s punishments, Lucan had never suffered this one.

At this time of evening, the Empress’s Theatre was silent, the sand slashed crimson with blood and gore, the stench of death thick in the air—the remnants of the day’s Spectacle. Discarded bone and clay tickets lay broken on the sand, and the hot breeze chased a small cluster of ribbons—some woman’s favor, once bestowed in amorous emotion, now lost as the day went down in the west. Like dragging fingers, the sun pulled back over the tiers of the Grand Palestra, cloaking the warrens in shadow, then the lower houses, the last light glinting off the golden accents of House Zaerus and flaring off the Bronze Gates of the amphitheatre.

One day, Lucan promised himself as he stumbled out onto the sand.
One day, I will walk out of here. A free man.

The praetorian guard marched him in chains to the center of the arena. He looked up, gaze searching the empty stands. Only hours ago the masses had thronged those benches and screamed his name.

Now, only the Empress herself witnessed this spectacle. The thought of it twisted Lucan’s gut. What kind of woman wanted to behold one man whip another? Granted, Her Imperial Majesty could not see in the manner of mortal women, but it was well known that she had her own unique ways to enjoy her Spectacles. Every crack of the whip against Lucan’s flesh, every scream he loosed, every creak of the ropes that bound him would be hers to take pleasure in.

He glanced up as he was prodded forward. The sand was cooler than it had been earlier—a comfort that was both strange and short-lived. For, in the center of the arena, a wooden structure loomed in the sand, its crossed beams casting an X-shaped shadow across Lucan’s body as the moon rose.

His legs trembled as they dragged him closer. The wood was old, splintered from the force of so many blows. Leather straps were nailed into each end, well worn and bloodied. Supplicants had pulled on them, the bonds cutting into their flesh.

Lucan imagined how many lashes it would take before he bloodied himself trying to get free.

The lead praetorian prodded him forward.

Lucan tried to envision it was someone else being pushed toward his doom. But then a dark figure stepped from beneath the far portico and strode toward them, and Lucan’s will began to crack.