In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal (8 page)

Hektor Actaeon, primus palus, sought after as both instructor and lover. He had once served Stratos well, if not willingly. A delicious slice of ass in the days when Stratos simply needed to forget about his woes. A delicious slice of ass and a competent assassin. Too bad he’d been disqualified in the Grand Melee three years ago. He might have otherwise earned his freedom.

That thought warmed Stratos to his toes. He had enjoyed watching the great Hektor Actaeon laid low.

He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He’ll attend to you when he’s done claiming his prize.” Gently, he pushed the boy back into the ring of novices.

Hektor Actaeon. Admittedly, Stratos had used him a little too hard.

Alession’s slavecraft had broken once Hektor had done the deed, the Ebon brand bleeding into a scar as the spell was used up. No matter. He’d killed the man who’d known the truth about Stratos. Young Leander had held such promise, and yet, he’d seen Stratos and Alession in the bath that night. Now he was dead and couldn’t use his secrets against either of them.

As for Hektor Actaeon…

I’ll use him to train the man who will kill him. And the Empress.

Chapter Three

INTRODUCTIONS

House Vulpinius,

Known to enslave their gladiators

To incite them to fight

Beyond the scope of mortal men

—Bann Ali, battle recorder for the Empress’s Grand Theatre

Whack!
The butt end of the longspear cracked against Lucan’s shoulder, knocking him down. Slowly, he regained his feet, glaring balefully at his erstwhile opponent.

Hektor Actaeon regarded him with sky-blue eyes and a conviction that never wavered. He swung again, whipping the longspear about like a staff.

Lucan ducked, his heart pounding in pride at his quickness. Too late, he felt the haft of the weapon against the backs of his legs.

“Ungh!” Lucan crumpled, his thighs numb and aching. He winced as he rolled on the hot sands.

“Look lively,” Hektor ordered, stepping in. “And try not to roll about like a hog wallowing in mud. On Spectacle days, the Empress has ground glass sifted in with the sand. It will be both hot and sharp.”

His chest heaving, Lucan rose painfully. He was too winded to retort, and he didn’t dare glower at Hektor again, but he harbored thoughts of beating the man with a stick while he slept.

As always, Stratos watched, standing off to one side, a finger at his lips as though to silence secrets. His expression was cold, hard to read. The chill of it caused Lucan to blush. For his new owner to think he wasn’t prepared, to think he wasn’t good—

He barely evaded a pass with the longspear and leaped back to avoid being caught by the gleaming tip.

Then again, this was Hektor Actaeon, champion gladiator and primus palus. Lucan had survived ten seconds. He was happy to just be standing.

He dodged the next swing and cast in with his net. Too soon, too eager. Easily, Hektor stepped back, and the net fell short, the weights kicking up puffs of sand.

“A poor cast.” Hektor’s tone was even and without reproach, but that only increased Lucan’s embarrassment.

If he’d only yell at me. Shout. Get angry.

Why was Hektor Actaeon unlike any master trainer Lucan had ever seen? Normally, the trainers railed at their students, bullied them, and in some cases, even beat them with canes. But Hektor… Hektor was mild. Were there places besides the arena where he showed his passion, his fierceness? Lucan could not keep from imaging him lounging in bed, disdaining the sheets, his cock stiff and full.

Unwittingly, Lucan licked his lips. His own shaft hardened, and he angled his body quickly, hoping no one had seen.

Hektor appeared unaffected. And Stratos… Lucan glanced back to the quaestor, but his face was dark as he watched, his gaze fixed on Hektor. Then his pallid, cold eyes flicked to Lucan.

A spasm of pain tore through Lucan’s left pectoral, where Alession had woven his dark spell into Lucan’s flesh. He cried out, falling to one knee. His fingers dug at his skin, the Ebon writhing beneath it like burrowing maggots. Lucan was suddenly breathless. Fear and shame burned through the pain.

Hektor must think me weak.

“Lucan.” The voice was gentle, rich with concern. When Lucan looked up, it was directly into Hektor Actaeon’s deep blue eyes. The man offered Lucan a hand up, and Lucan took it, grateful for the stoicism of gladiators. Hektor would not ask what had happened.

“Back to practice,” he said and nudged Lucan toward his fallen net.

Even that casual touch burned Lucan hotter than any brand. He felt it linger on his skin, an indelible mark, as though Hektor had claimed him for his own.

Desire flamed across his cheeks.
Dear Rilrune in Oversky, let him not see!

They sparred for what seemed an eternity, until Lucan’s arms were rubbery and he could no longer cast his net, until his legs trembled and his entire body burned with the fire of fatigue. Hektor pushed him, putting him through his paces like a bestiarius would a rare beast in front of a crowd.

Before slaughtering it.

Finally, Stratos seemed to grow bored of the constant repetition and took his leave. After that, Hektor relaxed visibly. He went easier on Lucan but still worked him hard, urging him past the limits of his endurance.

But he seemed kinder in Stratos’s absence.

And just when Lucan felt he would stumble, fall into the sand, and never get up—

“That’s enough for today.” Hektor lowered his shield. He turned and walked toward the shaded portico, to where small tables and chairs had been set out for the fighters. He gestured as he went, and one of the houseboys ran off to the interior of the theatre.

Lucan followed the primus palus.

“Come.” Hektor placed his longspear and shield on a rack strewn with other fighters’ weapons. He reached for Lucan to hand him the trident.

Lucan complied, their sweaty fingers brushing for the briefest moment. He felt his blush intensify, and hoped Hektor would think him sun-addled rather than captivated. Still, he ducked his head.

“Sit.” Hektor indicated a chair and then dropped into his, resting his corded biceps on the table. All around them, gladiators and their trainers reclined, taking wine and relaxation while others toiled out in the hot sun. The whipping slap of wood on flesh echoed across the amphitheatre as the trainers used their canes to inspire greater ferocity in their fighters.

Lucan noticed that Hektor Actaeon carried no cane. Mayhap he had other ways to inspire his novices.
Stop it, Lucan.

The houseboy returned, a decanter of wine on his shoulder and two mugs dangling from tanned fingers. He set the cups before them on the table and poured. The wine was a rich red summer-wine, its scent fruity and heady. To Lucan, it seemed an extravagance. House Pineus had not been able to afford such luxuries, its dwindling stable of fighters subsisting on overfermented beer.

“A glorious death,” Hektor said, raising his cup.

Lucan took up his own mug and tried not to gulp down the warm wine. This, perhaps, was even harder than sparring against the great primus palus. He forced himself to set the mug down after a few long pulls.

“Gratitude,” he said by way of thanks, but Hektor wasn’t meeting his gaze.

Hektor was looking at Lucan’s chest, his sky-blue eyes storming over as he stared.

The Ebon.

Reflexively, Lucan brought his hand up, to hide the brand, to protect it. But there was nothing there. The strange dark mark had healed, leaving not even a scar.

He shrank back from the memory of the slaver-consul plowing him, carving into him. Now that the terror had faded, now that the dark spell seemed only a memory, Lucan could not help but revel in the memory of the rough handling. The nails scraping on his scalp as he took the slaver’s cock, the feel of the slaver’s dick hard and rooting in his ass.

Hektor was staring right at Lucan’s pectoral, where Alession had carved the dark mark.

Somehow, Lucan found shame in it. “What?”

“Nothing.” Hektor shook his head so hard his black ponytail swayed across his shoulders.

Lucan watched the sensual swing of that luxurious hair, and suddenly he wanted to run his fingers through it. Hair of that length was a rarity here in the desert heat of Arena, not to mention a liability in combat. Long hair could foul a helm and even provide an opponent with an easy target to grapple. It could mean a swift death, and all for the sake of vanity.

Even Lucan, whose golden good looks were a large part of his crowd appeal, kept his hair barely at his shoulders.

Hektor Actaeon didn’t look vain, though. Oh, he preened and posed for the screaming masses. What gladiator didn’t? Each victory brought with it fame, fortune, and a higher chance at receiving the Mercy should Viltheleon, Goddess of Luck, favor another on the scorching sands of the theatre.

Lucan licked his lips.
I’m staring.
He realized it only as Hektor raised one dark eyebrow, an amused grin lilting on his full lips. Suddenly, Lucan felt heady, drunk. In Arena, the wines were strong and water was too precious a resource to waste diluting them.

“I…was…” He faltered. “Your hair.”

Surprise—a disturbed look—passed over Hektor’s face. His hand tightened on his cup and he put it down, the sharp
crack
on the wooden table making Lucan jump. Without another word, the primus palus stood and moved to the rack. He took his shield and longspear.

Lucan hurried to his side and pulled down his own weapons. Had he said something wrong? He stole a sidelong glance at Hektor.

The man caught him. “What about my hair?” There was a wariness in his voice.

“It’s…long,” Lucan said, frustration rising within him.

Surely Hektor had to realize the length was odd for a gladiator—dangerous. Then again, he was the primus palus. He defeated other men with ease and style. Why should he not be afforded every luxury? The Empress’s favored, he ate only the best food, lived in lush quarters, with teams of healers and leeches to care for his health and to massage his tired muscles. He had wine, delicacies, women brought to him—or men, if he so chose.

Long hair would seem to be the least of these luxuries. Lucan could not help imagining that black mane loose and flowing over Hektor’s broad shoulders.

Hektor reached back to his ponytail and tightened the thong that held it in place. His sky-blue eyes were sober. “I’ve grown it out in memory of someone… Someone dear to me.”

“Where is he now?” It was an innocent question, but Lucan regretted it immediately.

“Dead.” Hektor’s eyes were dim. “He’s dead.” He piled his weapons into Lucan’s arms and walked away, toward the spiraling stairwells that would lead them back to House Vulpinius.

Lucan stood there, dumbfounded, looking at Hektor Actaeon’s back. Feeling twice a fool.

HEKTOR STRODE AWAY, his anger festooning within him, an uncontrolled rage he had fought for so long.
By the flowering Abyss!
One day and the kid had already struck a nerve, carved a chink in Hektor’s impenetrable armor, and Hektor hated seeming weak. The fact that he might have twitched, might have shown a moment’s worth of true emotion, fueled his fury.

He paused at the archway to the stairwells. Irritated, he threw a glance over his shoulder at Lucan. The boy—
Why do I keep calling him that?
Lucan was clearly a young man, strapping and handsome with his golden features—struggled on behind, doing a fair job of carrying the weapons Hektor had piled on him.

He thought to turn back and help his student, but didn’t. The extra training would serve Lucan well in the arena, when it was only sheer rage and willpower that kept death at bay.

Instead, Hektor edged his voice in threat. “And don’t drop my shield, or you’ll end up at the whipping post.”

“Yes, sir.” Lucan’s words were laced with sarcasm.

Unwitting, a smile twitched at Hektor’s lips, but he shut it down. He shouldn’t treat the boy so gently. He’d seen Stratos lurking about, watching his newest charge.

Lucan was a Vulpinius now and likely a slave to the quaestor himself.

For a moment, Hektor had even thought he’d seen the shadow of the Ebon on Lucan’s chest. The hair on his nape prickled ominously.
Stop it, Hektor. He’s just a boy. An innocent.

Hektor pushed aside his ponytail and rubbed the back of his neck, touched the raised skin there. The old, burned-out mark.

He’d kept his hair long to hide it. He’d lied to Lucan.

The Ebon. Like a blight on his skin, it was feverish and swollen beneath his fingers. His hand trembling, he traced its indistinct edges. Once, it had been a true enslavement—a black circle with two slashes, imbued with the will of his Vulpinius slavemaster. Now, its magick used up, it had bled out into a dark circular blotch as indistinct and unfocused as Hektor’s life, his future.

Everything taken from him in that one horrible moment.

Stratos had used him—used him in ways Hektor was not proud of, used him in ways that broke him, that left him bereft and wanting, and unable to even hope the touch of another would heal him.

No one came back whole from being enslaved to the Ebon.

Only true love could break it. Hektor’s love for Leander had been true. And in the end, it hadn’t mattered.

He ascended the stairwell, pushing through the crowds toward the upper tiers of the Grand Palestra. He wished he could leave the weight of Leander’s death behind as easily as he left behind the burning sands of the Empress’s Theatre.

Leander.

Part of Hektor had grown his hair long out of mourning for Leander. The other part had been ashamed, so damn ashamed of the slaver mark on his neck that he’d wanted—no, needed—to hide it. No one else had realized he’d been enslaved. After all, no one had even known about him and Leander.

Except Stratos.

A warning needled Hektor’s mind.
The boy is one of Stratos’s toys, here to torment me, somehow.
He glanced back at Lucan, where he struggled and cursed to gain each stair, the bulk of the weapons and shield overburdening him. His retiarii dagger began to slip from beneath his arm. Hektor looked away.