The Winged Serpent (The Order of the Oath) (2 page)

Cyrus was led into the
triclinieum
where the man who occupied his dark thoughts lounged on one of many couches, a cup of wine clasped firmly in one wrinkled hand.

Claudius was a man of slight height and stature, his body withered with age, though his mind remained sharp. Unlike most, he was not a cruel master, at least not unduly so, but he was given to the pampered overindulgence of his station. Claudius took what did not belong to him, whether it be women or objects. He discarded what was not his to discard, slaves or their children. While others toiled his lands, and died in the arena for sport and profit, Claudius was given to excess of a sensual nature. When he was not attending to his scant duties as the imperial governor of Capena—one of many lapdogs to the emperor—Claudius lazed about his days partaking of either wine or women.

“Remove him from these chains.” Claudius gestured to one of the guards. “He has no weapon, and I am his
dominus
, he shall do me no harm.”

If Claudius had been wiser, he would have realized the error of his words.

Cyrus’ tightly muscled body, honed from many battles, sculpted in the arena, was a weapon in its own right. He needed no weapon to do harm, and to think that he wished no harm upon his master, that he would do no harm to Claudius, given the very first opportunity, was idiocy. A slave who’d been born free, who’d once lived as a free man, longed for one thing, and would kill anyone,
especially
his master to have it back yet again.

“Welcome, my champion of Capena,” Claudius blustered, his arms, draped in a heavy woolen toga, spreading wide. “I imagine you must wonder why I have requested an audience with you at such an hour.”

Cyrus remained silent, his body rigid. He’d learned early on that to speak out of turn, when not directly questioned, was met with harsh punishment. The scars littering his back were a glaring testament.

“I have heard word that someone plots against my house, that there is treachery brewing in Rome which spills to Capena.”

Cyrus’ eyes widened. To be accused of plotting against one’s master was akin to treason, the punishment death.

“Ahhh, I see the look upon your face, but you mistake my purpose.” Claudius sat up, although he remained seated. “I know it is not you who has treacherous intentions, but neither do I know who it is that does. That is why I requested your presence.”

Cyrus’ gaze sharpened on the man.

“You are my most decorated gladiator, and you have served me faithfully and honored this house for more than three years.” Claudius regarded him with shrewd, assessing eyes. “And that is why I wish to give you your freedom.”

Cyrus did not know if he’d heard Claudius truly, for the blood thundered in his ears from his heart hammering hard within his chest.

“I shall give you your freedom, Cyrus, if you pay one last tribute to me.”

The elation Cyrus felt, the joy he’d not wanted to embrace vanished as quickly as it had come. He had known not to expect such generosity, such charity from Claudius. Cyrus was still the champion of Capena, and in turn, he earned quite a profit for the house of his master. Cyrus was still worth a great deal to Claudius, and he would remain so until he lost in the arena. To free him at the height of his glory would have been beyond charity, it would have been foolish.

“There is rumor of a plot against me,” Claudius continued. “And I would have your protection as my guard, as well as your eyes and ears as my spy.”

That raised Cyrus’ brows. “May I speak freely,
dominus
?” Cyrus asked finally.

With Claudius’ nod of permission, he questioned, “How is it I may serve you,
dominus,
as both your guard and your spy? I cannot be in two places at once.”

Claudius’ face abruptly broke into a smile as he wagged his finger in the air. “That is why I chose you, Cyrus. You have always been of a quick mind.”

Claudius sobered then, his smile fading. “I have many of my own guards to protect me. You, as my personal guard, would simply be for pretense. As my slave you are able to go places where I cannot, you will hear things that I do not. It is because I trust you, I will give you more freedom within the walls of my villa and when we attend the arena games. In turn, you shall report to me, under the guise of my personal guard.”

“And if I discover who plots against you, I shall have my freedom?”

Claudius nodded. “And if you kill this traitor I shall not only free you, I will pay you well for your loyalty and service to me.”

Cyrus understood. A life for his freedom. The life of the man who plotted against his master. Cyrus experienced a moment’s regret, a measure of remorse, but as quickly as it came, it disappeared.

He’d once lived as a free man and still longed to reclaim that life. Not a day passed where he did not dream of his freedom, desire it, yearn for it. Cyrus was prepared to kill almost anyone to have his freedom, including a stranger.

With the nod of his head, Cyrus finally spoke, his voice firm, his words true.

“I will not fail you,
dominus
.”

* * * *

Three days had passed since he’d met with Claudius and the thought of being a spy and assassin for his
dominus
still turned Cyrus’ stomach, but when it did, he would remind himself, had he not killed in the arena for Claudius? Was that not worse? The ending of innocent life for sport? What he did in the arena was far less noble than desiring one’s freedom.

Cyrus assuaged his mind—and every other part of himself that had been broken and humiliated since he’d been enslaved—with the promise that he would soon be a free man once again. That was
all
he thought of, but he could do so no longer.

Firstly, he needed to succeed if he wished to leave this place, but more importantly, when not skulking about in the shadows as a spy, or reporting to Claudius, he still had his duties as
doctoris
, as well as his own gladiatorial instruction to attend to.

On this day, it was his position of
doctoris,
head trainer of the
ludus,
which took him into the heavily guarded chambers where all new slaves were held.

Cyrus was there to inspect the newly acquired men, to determine if any were worthy to enter the
ludus
as a gladiatorial recruit, so he passed the chamber holding the women without interest and walked into the next room, a small earthen space where tiny fires burned from the oil lamps along the walls.

Stepping deeper into the chambers, the dancing firelight revealed two men before him, their chests bare of hair and garments, and their skin glowing beneath the muted light, suggesting they’d been recently bathed and oiled.

“Where are they from?” he asked Romunus, the servant who was responsible for purchasing and delivering all slaves from the auction block to Claudius’ villa.

“Gaul,
doctoris,”
Romunus said from beside him.

Cyrus nodded, assessing each man closely.

Gauls, they were. That explained the proud, muscled physiques of the towering men, their bodies corded with dense muscle.

“What was your trade?” he asked of them in their native tongue, having learned many in his service to Claudius.

“Coppersmith,” one of the men replied whose name was Bacca, while the other relayed to Cyrus he had once been a farmer.

Cyrus nodded, and after questioning both men at length, he soon learned that neither had any training with a blade, which to Cyrus, meant they were useless to him and would require many months of instruction. Even then, there would be no assurance they would survive the final test before becoming a gladiator, or even their first battle in the arena.

With a sigh, he turned his back to the men and said to Romunus. “Was this the best you could do?”

“
Dominus
did not send me with much coin.” He shrugged. “At the least, they are sturdy and fit.”

“Sturdy and fit? I require fighters.” He shook his head in disgust and prepared to depart when Romunus halted him with a hand against his arm.

“Wait, there is one more I must show you.”

Cyrus peered down at the little man then once again at the two Gauls. “Well where is he then?”

Romunus gave a toothy smile. “Not
he
,
she.
”

She?
Cyrus scowled. “No,” he said firmly, already turning to leave.

“Wait, you have not even seen her—”

“And I do not need to. We do not train women here. Those days are long past.”

“But
dominus
hints at doing so again.”

That halted Cyrus where he stood. Female gladiators within a
ludus
full of men was an inevitable disaster. Claudius had discovered this for himself and stopped training women long before Cyrus had joined the
ludus
.

“What foolishness is this you speak?” he demanded of Romunus.

“It is true. Rumors abound that the games of Capena have grown dull in comparison to Falerii. There has not been a female champion in some time.
Dominus
believes this is what Capena needs, that this will excite the crowds.”

Cyrus sincerely hoped this was a passing amusement of Claudius’, and that he was not serious. Women in a
ludus
? He snorted. The men would be unfocused, and jealousies would arise that would spill upon the battlefield. It would be a disaster, Cyrus was certain of this, and he wanted no part of it. If Claudius wished him to evaluate the females for gladiator training then he would have to tell him directly.

Cyrus turned to leave, but Romunus blocked Cyrus’ path.

“I have long heard rumors of this one,” Romunus began. “I did not think them true at first. I did not wish to believe she was the one they spoke of, but I asked others and it would seem tales of her do not prove false.”

Cyrus’ raised brow was his only response as he waited Romunus out. No matter the wishes of Claudius, Cyrus had absolutely
no
interest in a
gladiatrix,
but if Claudius
did
then it would be wise to take a look at her, if only to give his master a fair assessment of her potential.

“She was once the female champion of Aquileia—a
gladiatrix
. For many years she was undefeated, and then one day it was as if she vanished. She was sold to another master, and was not seen in the arena again. We are fortunate to have her in our possession now…” A shadow crossed Romunus’ face then as his voice trailed off.

“What is it?” Cyrus demanded impatiently, when Romunus did not finish.

“There is but only one small, very minor problem.”

Cyrus frowned, his patience with the simpering man threading thin. “And that would be?”

“She refuses to fight. She is demanding she be given domestic duties.”

A slave with demands.

Despite himself, Cyrus could not stop the small smile from spreading across his face.

Past fights or not, and no matter her reputation, she had not been inside the arena in some time. That in itself was telling, and that she refused to fight was, also. She could very well not be fit for the life of a
gladiatrix
again.

With a long, almost pained sigh, he nodded to Romunus. He could not believe Claudius was considering such a thing. He could not believe he was going to give credence to such foolishness by assessing her. “Very well, show me this female gladiator of yours.”

It was as if he told Romunus the heavens had opened up and poured forth pure copper, the man’s wide, gapped smile was so broad.

“You shall not be disappointed. She is quite beautiful as well.”

Cyrus had to force himself not to scowl. “How wonderful. My burden has just become lighter,” he said dryly. “I shall not have to instruct her on fighting tactics in the arena after all for she can simply charm her opponent to death.”

* * * *

Beneath the palatial home of Claudius Norbanus and the training grounds of the
ludus
were the twisted tunnels where the slave quarters could be found, shrouded in shadows and darkness, interrupted only by the occasional oil lamp.

Cyrus maneuvered through these dank vestibules on his way to the chambers where this female gladiator—heralded by Romunus as a legend of her time—waited.

Cyrus bit back an impatient grunt as he passed the two guards standing at the entryway. Like the quarters of the men, the entire space was small, the ground hard with mud caked dirt, and he had to squint to see beneath the faint light flickering from the pottery lamp in one corner.

Yet, as soon as his eyes adjusted, his gaze lit upon her, even as Romunus droned on in the background, pointing her out.

Cyrus needed no such introduction.

She stood a head taller than the other women, her body lean with muscle, yet gently rounded. She boasted the physique of a gladiator, but possessed the gentle curves of a comely, feminine woman.

Even under the faint light, her skin glowed with a brilliant luminescence that did not owe itself to the olive oil with which the other women had been coated. Instead, her skin was naturally smooth, a shimmering rich copper hue which hinted at Carthaginian origins.