II.

 

 

IN MY CHAMBER, THE slave awaited me.

Over and again, I mopped at what remained of my midday meal. The slave awaited my lesson and yet I could not bring myself to hasten to him. Instead, I prolonged my time away from my chamber until the bread beneath my fingers threatened to crumble. None save me remained, my mother long since occupied with other tasks and, by habit and inclination, my father never dined with us. Thus I sat alone, posture incorrect and slowly destroying a hunk of bread to avoid a situation not of my making.

Three months had passed since my father bade me teach a slave, three months of silence and resentment and futility. Every day, I taught a man unresponsive to my lessons, a man who stood unyielding, his gaze locked straight ahead. He may believe such an action subtle but it was not.

As stated, my father demanded a report a week to the day after that first meet and I had given it, though there had not been much to say. Again he had pressed upon me the importance of this slave’s learning and I had dreaded each subsequent report, certain my father would punish me if he did not gain what he sought.

And so, every day, the slave was brought to me and every day, I endured his…his resentment. Though he never displayed such or even spoke a word, underneath it was certain emotion seethed and with my certainty came a tension I found unbearable.

Maybe it was I overreacted. Maybe the slave did not feel resentment, or fury, or a seethe of emotions. Never did he act in a manner he should not, and nothing he did was overt. He had not threatened me, or struck me, or done aught another man might. It was only…He stood and did not speak.

It unnerved me, the totality of his silence. Once only had I heard his voice, once only when my father had demanded compliance and from then on not a word had passed his lips. This lack of speech honed my discomfort and my fear, such that I constantly balanced on edge and the smallest of things could set me to topple. I spent my days in this apprehension and I hated it, hated that I dreaded the approach of the hour I must spend with him and hated that once it was done, I dreaded the approach of it the following day.

This was not how I wished to spend my time. I did not wish to teach a slave, to spend my hours in apprehension and discomfort. Instead, I could be at my own studies, I could be sneaking to the markets with Rachael, I could be doing a hundred other things. This chore, this slave took me from my life and he had no care that I, too, had no choice. He had no care, he saw only his own—

Taking breath, I forced calm. Well. It could be I harboured some anger alongside my fear.

Pushing the bread around my plate, I thought of yesterday. Yesterday, my father had pulled me aside and demanded knowledge of my progress. I knew not what to tell him. I believed the slave retained some knowledge but I did not know. He understood our words, of that I was certain, and I knew his intellect to be keen. He could not hide the flicker of comprehension but in no other way did he indicate he absorbed any of what I said.

I could not tell my father this.

Instead, I told my father the slave learned well and would soon be ready for display. I told him all he wanted to hear and prayed to the gods the slave would respond as he ought. Maybe once he displayed in the arena my father would discontinue our lessons. Maybe, soon, this would all be over and I could return to my world of scrolls and learning. For now, I would remain seated here, as if I could through strength of will cause time to halt and begin again only after the session with the slave was done.

The hunk of bread disintegrated under my fingers. Staring at its remnants, I knew no longer could I delay. He would remain in my chamber, whether I stayed at this table another hour or another minute, and I harmed only myself with this futile rebellion.

Rising, I pushed myself from the table and forced the first step. It seemed a moment and I was at my chamber door. Another, and I was inside.

My chamber looked the same. Still the mosaic I had commissioned. Still the hanging my sister had discarded.

Still the slave.

He stood by the desk, his eyes forward and expression blank. Hands held before him and shackled as always, he appeared just as impassive, just as impenetrable.

How pleasant to know little had changed.

“Greetings,” I said with false brightness. “It is a glorious day, is it not? The sun and its' light is a blessing of the gods, though it is a truth the rains have been too long absent. However, you can never be sad when the sun is shining, can you?” Stop with this babbling, Lucia. Pulling myself together, I gestured at my desk, at the twin chairs stood beside it. “Please, seat yourself.”

Never before had he complied with this request and he did not comply now. He only stood, gaze forward and still as stone, and might have been a statue for all the motion he displayed.

Others slaves acted not as he did. Never before had I encountered this, the slaves in our living quarters beaten and meek through years of forced servitude. Well, the slaves other than Rachael. Even the other gladiators, part of my father’s ludus for over a year by the time they were allowed in the presence of their lanista’s family, were undefiant and if not eager to please, at least passably respectful.

Not only with me did this slave behave so. Often he had come to his lessons bearing the marks of defiance. Sometimes I heard my father lament over his spirit but then, in the same breath, he praised such and imagined aloud the glories the slave would bring as gladiator to this ludus.

My father sometimes imagined too much.

Seating myself at my desk, I shuffled parchment and pretended officiousness. My work required dividing and so I divided it, stacking under the oil burner the parchment containing those tales too advanced. The slave would not look at the documents in any event, and I knew them by heart, so I could see no reason to—

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. From the corner of my eye I saw a lean hip, the defined muscles of a torso, strong hands shackled by chains. A half-healed gash marred the flesh of his side while a forming bruise discoloured the skin beneath his ribs.

The scrolls before me blurred and my breath shallowed. The slave had deigned to move.

Beside me now he stood, tall and correct and… He loomed. His presence—the terrible breadth, the formidable height and the silence—stirred fear, abject and absolute. At times, it overwhelmed me, drying my mouth and setting my heart to pound, and at these times I knew, I knew no longer could I teach him, no longer could I force myself to his presence.

I had refused to teach him, for a time.

My father did not long allow this. His will, as in all things, prevailed. None can deny lanista aught, not the gladiators in his training school, not the women of his family, not the newly purchased slave my father had decided would become a gladiator of legend. Thus, before a week passed the slave was back in my chamber and I again taught an unresponsive student.

Ignoring his silent presence as best I could, I shuffled papers. I had tried all I could think to make the gladiator thaw, to mitigate my fear, to have him say at least one word to me. I taught him and I had no notion if what I taught resonated, if he heard what I said and internalised it. Did he now know of the trinity of Ceres, Liber and Libera? Was he aware in some bouts he might be called upon to act as the arm of the vengeful Furies, to dispense their wrath on those criminals and miscreants sentenced to the arena? I could not tell and his impassiveness was no clue.

Sometimes though, he would look at me and I would feel the heat of his anger, a firestorm burning devastatingly hot but a moment before disguised again behind a slave’s mask.

Cursing myself, I tugged at a scroll. This had to cease. For all his defiance, he had never made a step towards me. Ridiculous, to assume—to fear—he would. I could not spend my days thinking only of him, of the time when next we met. I could not allow him to consume me so. I had more to my life than him and his lessons and I would not—

Vicious, distracted, I tugged at a parchment caught under the lamp.

Too vicious. Too distracted. The burner tottered. And then it fell.

Oil spilled and flame tore behind it, voracious as it consumed the fuel. Horror-stricken, I could only watch as the oil licked the fabric of my tunic and flame followed. I could only watch as I started to burn.

I shoved back from the desk and in my haste made a tangle, falling to the floor but it was too late, too late, the flames had hold of me and would not falter, the hem of my tunic on fire and no matter how desperate I kicked my legs, I could not be rid of—

A billow of cloth enveloped my legs. I looked down to the broad shoulders hunched over my form, the scarred hands moving roughly along my legs, forcing the cloth to encase the flame, to extinguish it. Bewildered, I stared at the dark head bent before me.

The slave had rescued me.

His hands turned gentle and the cloth lifted, his eyes running over my legs. Seemingly satisfied, he looked up at me. Bemused still, I could only return his gaze. A faint scar crossed his temple, only visible if very close, and long lashes surrounded eyes of palest blue.

The strange thought rid me of my bemusement. Why should I notice such a thing?

“Are you well?”

I jumped. His voice. The slave's voice. Wetting my lips, I nodded.

I had barely made the assent before he exploded to his feet, shoving from me to pace and pace and pace. Seated still on the floor, I watched, the ruins of my tunic and my mostly unharmed legs before me.

Mid-pace, he stopped and turned to me. “What were you thinking?” he snarled. “Are you simple? Do you not have any sense to realise an open flame should never be on a desk? You always have that flame. Every time, I wait for it to fall and you have great fortune I was here when I did. What were you thinking?”

Astonished, I had no answer but he did not require one, launching into a raging speech on my folly and so I only watched him in his rage, watched him expend his emotion and then… I felt a laugh bubble inside me.

I clamped down on the impulse. Lucia, it is not funny.

Still he raged, still he paced, still this sudden outburst of emotion. Weeks, weeks, had passed with naught, with fear and resentment and yet now, he expended much, as if my lack of care held offence, and it was too much, too strange, too…

My hold slipped. A laugh escaped. And then another. And then I could not stop.

Incredulity filled the slave’s expression. I could feel it almost against my skin, and yet I could not cease. I laughed until tears fell from my eyes, until my belly hurt, until I was sure I would never regain my breath.

“Apologies,” I gasped. “I can not―seem―to stop.”

Arms folded before his chest, he watched me as I hiccoughed and gasped and laughed. After a time, he dropped to a crouch before me.

Finally I managed to cease, my eyes locked upon him as a stray laugh bubbled from me now and then.

“You are well?” he said, and in his tone was his effort to be gentle.

Wiping at my cheeks, I nodded.

His gaze dropped to my legs. “You are not burned?”

“No, you extinguished the flame before it could do more than redden my skin. Thank you.” To prove my lack of injury, I wiggled my feet.

His brows drew as he regarded my dancing feet. A feeling of foolishness grew in me and the movement of my feet stuttered and died.

Tucking my legs beneath me, I looked to my desk. “You are correct about the lamp. I should have known better.” I offered a helpless shrug. “Things such as this happen around me with alarming frequency.”

He remained silent a moment and then, “It may be you should be fitted with a bell.”

I blinked at the sudden shift. “A bell?”

“It is what the farmfolk did for wayward cows.”

My jaw dropped. “Did you just compare me to a cow?”

An expression almost a smile played across his features. “It worked, domina. Rare was the occasion we lost a cow to the flame of a fallen lamp.”

Eyes wide, I stared at him. He had just compared me to a cow. A cow.

That almost-smile still flirted with his lips. “Are you able to stand?”

Scowling, I struggled to rise. Of course I could, I was not so feeble I could not―

I collapsed back to the floor. Maybe it was I could not yet stand.

I struggled to gain my feet once more and, with arms braced on his knees, the slave watched me. “You require help.”

I glared at him. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

He shrugged. “Your grace, domina.”

Childishly, I stuck my tongue out at him. A snort came from him, what could have been termed laughter. One part of me watched, aghast. Laughter? And I jested as if I never held apprehension of him? How could I be so cavalier with this slave who had frightened me so?

He exhaled. “I can watch this no longer. Here.” Gently, he gripped my elbow.

For a second, I debated refusing his help but really, who did I hope to fool? My legs still shook and I required assistance, he was correct in that. I could behave with grace, if pressed.

Leaning on him, I allowed him to help me rise and then, because I could not pretend I felt otherwise, I offered gratitude. “Again I thank you. You were correct, I did require help.”

His gaze had left me, though, in favour of the entrance to my chamber. “Where is your guard?”

“Guard?”

He looked down at me. “There was much noise. Your father said you had a guard. Where is he?”

“Oh.” That guard. The fictional one. “No. That is, there never was a guard.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “There is no guard?”

“My father would not waste a guard on me.”

“There is no guard?”

Surprised, I looked at him. Really looked at him.

Anger. So much rage.

Before I realised what I had done, I had taken a step back. “Of course there would be no guard. My father may have said such to keep you in line, but it would never have been true.” My words ran together, almost stumbling in their haste to be free of my tongue. “His soldiers are a finite commodity and his slaves would never defy…” Realisation dawned.

Juno protect me. All the gods safeguard me. This slave, this one, he was all that was defiance. I could have… He could have…

I swallowed and said no more.

The slave folded his arms before his chest, his pale eyes upon me. “There should have been a guard.”

“Yes.”

“None knew if I could be trusted.”

“No.”

He did not reply and regarded me with those pale, pale eyes.

Averting my gaze, I could not bring myself to speak. He was correct. I had courted disaster and never known. My father should have. He should have protected me.

“I would not have harmed you.”

My gaze flew to his. Residual anger left a faint tension to his features but he appeared to have made an effort to gentle his expression. “Never would I have harmed you.” His hands tightened on his biceps. “And I will not harm you now.”

Taking a shaky breath, I forced myself to take a step toward him. Just the one. “I know.”

“Domina.” His expression seem troubled, as if it pained him I might be afeared.

“I know.” I smiled to reassure him, though it was tremulous. “Although I cannot like your plan regarding the bell.”

If only he could see the expression now on his face. My smile widened, became genuine, and in answer he wore again an expression almost a smile.

“Do you―That is, would you…” I took a breath. “Will you give me your name?”

I thought for a time he would not answer but then, “My name is Marcus.”

A sort of delight filled me that he would give me such. “I am Lucia.”

“I know, domina,” he said, a smile playing about his lips.

Of course. He had heard my father. He had heard me. I was such a fool. “Oh. Well, of course. It is only… You may call me such. If you like.”

“Thank you, domina. Lucia,” he corrected himself.

I returned his small smile with a broad one of my own. Maybe it was this would not bear disaster.