CHAPTER 6. Messalina Augusta
"Your Empress," Victor said, sticking out his lower lip in a pout, because he had to explain himself to stupid Fidelis, "she would want to see a barbarian chased by her husband's troops, right?"
With how deeply Messalina despised Claudius Caesar? I doubted she would be entertained by such a spectacle, but I didn't care to discuss the Empress' intimate secrets.
"Maybe," I said.
Something cold flickered behind Victor's eyes as he smoothed his knee-length breeches down his thighs. It was the only item of clothing he didn't remove from his oiled body. "Then I'll give Fidelium and its Empress a blue-skinned barbarian to loath."
His upper arms were more likely to provoke lust in Messalina. But, once more, I kept my mouth shut. I wasn't going to discuss the Empress with the quad and Rufius Fulgentius, particularly because the latter screamed, "Brilliant plan!"
The pudgy man even tried to bodily push Victor to the tunnel. He might as well put his shoulder to the Palatine Hill! Victor folded his arms across his chest and glared at me. He wouldn't go until my say-so.
"It's a dumb plan, rookie. You'll get clobbered." I gritted my teeth.
"No."
"Allow me one moment to talk some sense into him!" I begged Rufius Fulgentius. The Empress would keep.
Rufius Fulgentius' feet pumped and slipped on the straw-covered stones of the floor. Victor didn't move an inch and his face remained as impassive as the slabs underfoot.
"Noble Rufius Fulgentius! They'll scar his pretty face! Or break his nose. Who'd want him if his nose looks like a clam? "
Victor's eyes flung open in genuine surprise. He pointed at Laurentius and his quad. "These? Break my nose? They won't leave a scratch on me!"
The boys bristled, except Junius. Junius rubbed his chin, head tilted to one shoulder, assessing the challenge. Obviously, I wasn't the only one who saw through Victor's pretense during his first week in our training yard.
"I wouldn't bait them if I were you," I said. "Rudii don't have a sharp edge, but they are heavy."
He raised and dropped his massive shoulders in an equally massive shrug. "It doesn't matter. I promise, they won't touch me."
I chewed my lips, tempted to hand him enough rope to hang himself. Then, a torch lit up in my mind. "I'll tell you what. If you get as much as a bruise, you'll give me your name. I'm tired of calling you a rookie."
"You can always call him Prickus Colossus," Quintus piped up, "we all do."
I didn't take my gaze of Victor. His eyes narrowed as he held it. The world collapsed to just us, to the exclusion of everyone and everything else. A chill of exhilaration climbed up my spine.
"Deal?" I asked.
"Fair." Victor nodded. "If I walk away from the fight unscathed, you'll tell me why your parents sold you as a slave."
Rufius Fulgentius hopped from one foot to another, listening to the applauds filtering in from the hall. The excitement was peaking and if we missed it, it would be hard to recapture the public's enthusiasm.
"If he doesn't, I will!" he squealed, "just go to the arena already!"
"Your real name to my family story." I extended my hand to Victor. Unhurriedly. He took it, just as deliberately. Let Rufius Fulgentius squirm! He wasn't a part of this moment.
Victor's hand was warm, dry, and rough with calluses. I wanted to keep holding it, but we shook on the bet, and that was it. Well, almost. As I released him from the handshake, I said, "Just put your sandals on, for Mercury's sake."
This belonged in a courtyard, with some matron yelling at her brats, not in the tunnels under the Colosseum, between two champions.
"You worry too much." Victor rolled his eyes and led the way into the hall. Barefoot, because he was a fool. Someone was bound to stomp on his toes, and it would hurt.
Yes, a fool. A fool with a rigid neck and hair shorn to the skull to minimize the potential for grabs in a fight. His back was wide, tapered at the waist. To each side of his spine an array of muscles moved under glistening skin in a perfect unison. His were the supple moves of a predator. Maybe, just maybe, he didn't need lions etched on metal to inspire fear. Maybe he was the lion.
Laurentius and his men—Quintus, Didius and Junius—followed Victor out of the room.
Rufius Fulgentius brought up the rear, squawking like a hen that had just laid an egg, about Empress, about the importance of this fight, about things he was clueless about.
The fighters were smarter. They had fallen silent in Victor's aura. The threat emanating from him was clear as spring water, even to Laurentius.
I let the first three go by me, without another word, however, I caught the best of them by the elbow. "Junius, remember to spare his face."
He scoffed. "Worry about Laurentius. He has an ax to grind with Prickus Colossus, not me."
"True." I released him, and we walked side-by-side the length of the hall. It was wider than the streets around our school and appeared longer than I remembered. I couldn't wait to get to the end of it and step into the bowl of the arena. It always had a calming effect on me. Today was no exception. The moment I felt sunlight on my face, magnified by the arena's shape; the moment the stands spotted the gladiators leaving the tunnel and roared their approval, bliss descended upon me. I had done all I could. The boys would do what they could. The rest was in Mithras' hands. It was too late to be anxious.
I clasped Junius' hand before going to the small space to the right from the gates, in front of the spectators' benches. "Luck."
"Luck," he replied.
Quintus twisted all the way around with a pleading glance. A pang of guilt tugged at my gut. It was his debut too, and Victor was pissing all over it.
"Beat the pants off Prickus Colossus!" I shouted to my new trickster over the clamor of the spectators. "Viva Quintus the Trickster!"
"Viva me!" He glowed brighter than a midsummer day. This stupid boy would walk into a fire for me, and there was nothing I could do but wait it out. Only the years could set him straight, like they did for me. Like they did for everyone, turning all men so wise, so commendably reasonable, it hurt to think about it.
When the sole of Victor's foot touched the sand, a wave of tensing and relaxing muscles ran through his body. From fingertips into his shoulders, down his back, to the calves. His toes probably curled for all I knew. I had seen no one stretch this way... and it wasn't just a stretch. He wasn't watching Quintus and me, like he did from the gallery, but he was listening. It buoyed me so much; I had to reach for the arena calm again while I walked to my favorite position in the stands.
To my right, the private boxes teamed with the aristocracy swaddled in silks with wide swathes of red. The galleries had standing room only and were dominated by dusky hues of the rough-span cloth. Between these two extremes nestled the merchants and sundry. Their finery was mostly gray with splotches of purple and blue embroidery.
I promised myself not to look for Messalina Augusta, but it was impossible to ignore the Imperial box opposite from the gladiators' exit. The giant marble structure hovered in the air, overshadowed by the awning of the rarest color of them all—green.
From this distance, I couldn't distinguish the occupants' features or the details of the dress, but the Empress sat on the throne, glittering with half the gold in the Empire and yards of green silk. She slipped her veil as far back as modesty permitted, framing the bronzed oval of her face with precious green-colored gauze. The diadem that crowned her was so large, it was a wonder she held her neck straight. But this was Messalina Augusta. If the crown was ten times heavier, she'd still worn it. Still carried herself straight, no matter what pains it caused her.
Two princes, aged six and four, kept Messalina's ladies-in-waiting and nannies on their toes. The Praetorian Guard stood to attention in gleaming armor.
Despite all the bling, despite the copious emerald-green on display, what swam up in my memory were Messalina Augusta's eyes. They were the warmest shade of green to be had in the Fidus world, but their hue was deceptive. If she wanted to reflect her character, she should have adorned herself in steel, rather than gold and emeralds.
Before the aftertaste of the past soured my throat, my men presented themselves before the Empress, the quad and Victor.
"Ave Messalina Augusta!"
Laurentius banged his rudis against his shield. Quintus, Didius and Junius joined their voices in, offering their weapons up for her blessing. They repeated the greeting twice more, rousing the crowd.
Messalina Augusta!
Ave!
Augusta! Fidus! Viva!
'Morituri te salutant' wasn't said before the mock fights. They reserved it for the gladiators who fought for real, to the death.
"We, who are about to die, salute thee," I murmured the words anyway, because something about Messalina Augusta brought the oath to my mind. Old habits die hard...
During the hubbub, Victor stood aloof, his arms folded across his chest. His head swiveled left and right, studying the amphitheater. Noticing the relaxed line of his shoulders, I chuckled. I was looking forward to the showdown between Laurentius, Quintus, Didius and Junius vs. Victor almost as much as I was looking forward to learning Victor's real name.
Then the Empress' gaze found me. Yes, I felt it crawl over my figure from such a distance. Yes, even with everyone's attention fixed on the five gladiators in the arena. I felt my elevated mood drain away. The remembered warmth of those green eyes filled my gut with ice, freezing it solid. Messaline Augusta hadn't forgotten about me.
I expelled a slow breath and tried to ignore my foreboding. My business wasn't to worry about the Imperial intrigues. It was to watch my students on the sand of the arena, where a naked barbarian was preparing to take on four gladiators in Fidelis armor, with the audience as set against him as he desired.
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