The Gladiator (22 page)

A
bandoned by the guests who'd witnessed his disgrace, Marcus berated the Fates. A few jeers wafted back to him, branding him with shame. Soaking wet, he levered himself out of the fountain. The agony emanating from his nose and up through his eye sockets was enough to blind him. Humiliated in front of the very citizens he'd planned to impress, he swore to wreak vengeance on all those who'd ruined him.

Staggering back up the path, he gingerly cupped his swelling face in an effort to stem the slow, yet steady, stream of blood. He'd spent the last five weeks establishing his business. With the money he borrowed from Antonius he'd rented an expensive location in the Forum to set up shop.

It was a natural assumption to think the senator had arranged his invitation to Adiona's tonight to fulfill his promise and introduce him to the influential contacts he needed to lure a wealthy patronage.

Perhaps if he'd stayed in Rome he might have been better prepared to meet Pelonia. As it was, he'd been slow to recognize the trap closing around him.

And it was a trap—a neatly set one. Though Marcus had
yet to figure out the connection between his niece and the
lanista,
he harbored nary a doubt that Antonius had engineered the night's events in an effort to avenge Pelonia. Once again the twice-cursed wench and her blasphemous beliefs were the catalyst for all his troubles. He'd thought he'd taken care to remove her from his path, but the gods must be testing him—and his patience—to see if he were truly worthy of their blessings.

Shivering, he gritted his teeth, then winced at the burst of pain behind his battered nose. He'd lost everything. He needed no oracle to see Antonius intended to demand his investment back. With the money spent, his savings gone and no way to make a quick return now that he was a pariah, the property in Iguvium was forfeit.

Soaked to the skin, he ordered a slave to fetch him a fresh tunic and a cloth to dry himself.

The longer he waited outside like a beggar, the more his fury grew. Shamed by how easily his enemies surprised him tonight, he likened Antonius and the
lanista
to a beast he must slay if he ever hoped to regain his pride. Pelonia was its heart. Cut her out and the beast would topple.

Fortunately for him, his niece was an easy target. Rome was an unhealthy place for a Christian.

 

“Pelonia, wake up!” Tiberia said. “We must get you out of here. Soldiers are at the front door demanding your arrest.”

Her cousin's urgency acted the same as a cup of cold water splashed in her face, waking Pelonia from a sound sleep. A dull ache throbbed behind her forehead, but she thrust back the luxurious bedcovers and jumped up instantly, her feet hitting the floor before she even had her bearings. She shook her head to clear the grogginess. “What? Why?”

Tiberia passed her a servant's tunic. “Hurry, change into
this. Perhaps you won't be as noticeable. Antonius and the
lanista
are buying you time, but we don't have long before the soldiers surround the palace.”

“We stayed at Adiona's,” she said aloud, glancing about the room Caros had put her to bed in the previous night.

Now fully awake, the gravity of what was happening filled her with fear. “Why am I being arrested?”

“Can't you guess?”

“Marcus told the authorities I'm a Christian.”

Tiberia nodded. “I left to warn you before I heard the full story, but it seems he reported you for sedition.”

Exchanging the silks she'd worn the previous night for the tunic, Pelonia hurried to tie her sandals. The charge against her made the threat more real. Because followers of Christ refused to accept the emperor as a god, Christians were executed for being traitors of the Empire.

“One of Adiona's trusted slaves is waiting in the corridor to lead you through a secret passage to the street. He'll accompany you to the gladiatorial school. Antonius and I aren't pleased with the situation but we agree the
lanista
can protect you better in his own domain.”

“What about Caros? I can't endanger him. If the authorities find he's hidden me, he'll be imprisoned.”

“He's willing to take the risk.”

“I'm not,” she said stubbornly. “He's sworn never to be enslaved again. If he's imprisoned his old master will buy him and send him back to the arena for certain.”

“If you don't leave he's bound to kill someone defending you and end up with the same fate.” Tiberia pushed her toward the door. “Don't be an
idiota.
I want you safe.
Caros
wants you safe. Escape to the school and give us a chance to work out a plan to protect you.”

Pelonia felt like a coward, but she couldn't find a hole in
Tiberia's reason. At the door, she stopped just long enough to hug her cousin. “I love you, dearest. I want your every happiness. Tell Caros I love him, too. In case the worst happens—”

“Say no more.” Tiberia's throat worked to swallow back tears. “I refuse to listen. All will be well. Just go before they find you!”

A tall, dark-skinned slave by the name of Aram led Pelonia through the dimly lit bowels of the palace. “Look there,” he said in his thick Syrian accent, once they emerged outside.

She glanced over her shoulder to find the sun-washed steps leading to Adiona's palace a short distance away. A handful of soldiers, their red capes flapping in the breeze, waited on the top landing, near the front door. Others were already fanning out to surround the property just as Tiberia predicted.

“Come,” the slave said, “we must walk. A cart or litter may draw added attention and we want to remain in the shadows.”

After what felt like hours at a punishing pace along Rome's littered streets, Pelonia and Aram came to the school's massive front gates. The place seemed quieter than usual, but she'd been away for almost six weeks. Perhaps the throbbing pain in her head made her remember things differently than they actually were.

A guard opened the iron gate, his face solemn. The yard was a mess, not the neat, efficient space she recalled. Crates and barrels were stacked at odd angles. Shards of broken ceramic were strewn across the gravel.

An air of foreboding seized her. “I think we should leave, Aram. This doesn't feel safe.”

It was too late. Soldiers converged from behind the stacked crates and surrounded the two of them. Fear exploded within her. One of the uniformed men knocked Aram to the dirt. Propping his sandaled foot on the back of the Syrian's neck, he pinned him to the ground.

Encircled by soldiers, she had nowhere to run.

A sinewy arm clamped around her waist from behind. “You're a slippery little thing, aren't you?” His harsh laughter rang in her ear.

“How did you find me?”

“We were warned you'd be at one of three places. The widow's palace, the senator's home or—”

“Here,” she finished for him. Panic rising ever higher, she worked to remain above the abyss of terror that promised to drag her deeper into its depths.

As the soldiers bound her wrists behind her, she gave herself over to prayer.
Dear Heavenly Father, if it's Your will I die for Your name's sake, please let me do so with honor.

Her ankles shackled with a short chain, one of the men lifted her off her feet and tossed her face-first into a wagon. Her head, already sore from the previous night, bounced against the rough wooden floorboards. Lewd comments and rough caresses on her bare calves prickled her skin with revulsion.

“Enough of that, men,” said a voice of authority. “She was supposed to be delivered by the noon hour. Unless you want to face his ire yourself, we'd best take her to the magistrate as ordered.”

 

The wagon rolled to a halt. Orders were barked and two of Pelonia's captors were assigned to guard her. Calloused hands hefted her from the wagon and stood her on the ground. Hot, queasy and faint from the long, bumpy ride in the sun, she trembled uncontrollably. She'd had too long to think about the horrors of her possible fate. Like the wolves snapping at the Christians in the amphitheatre, images of torture and untold agony plagued her.

The taller of her guards bounded up the steps leading to
a public building in front of her. A chiseled stone sign above the entrance read, Magistrate.

Perspiration broke out on her brow.

“Get moving.” The second guard shoved her and she proceeded him at a hobbled pace up the steps. The taller man returned from indoors, his red cape flowing out behind him. “Hurry it up, woman,” he bellowed from the landing. “The magistrate's in a foul mood. He's been waiting all afternoon to hear your case.”

Why?
Why was the magistrate waiting for her? What was so unique about her situation?

The rope chafing her wrists, she entered the office. Her shackle rattled against the concrete floor and echoed off the barren gray walls.

Where is everyone?

Except for a few dour-faced clerks behind tables to her left, there were few witnesses. She'd never been to a magistrate's building and had no firsthand knowledge of how legal proceedings were carried out. Perhaps all suspected criminals were tried in relative private? No. Something was wrong.

A clerk stood and read her name and supposed crimes from a small scroll. A guard pushed her forward. The shackle caused her to stumble. With her hands cinched behind her back, she almost fell. Biting her lip, she prayed for courage and crossed the austere room to stand before the magistrate.

A rotund man with deep lines in his forehead, he smacked his lips and scrutinized her from behind laced, sausagelike fingers. Nerves stretched to the breaking point, Pelonia began to fidget under the weight of his glare.

“I think I've been lied to,” he finally said with disgust. “I was told you were dangerous, a deviant intent on influencing a senator to commit treason against the emperor.”

The seriousness of the charges made her tremble. No
wonder she'd received a rapid trial. It was bad enough to be tried as a Christian, but inciting others to rebel meant instant death.

Suddenly the lack of observers gained new meaning. She suspected the office had been cleared to protect Antonius's honor, not her privacy. With so few witnesses, there was less chance of gossip to sully the powerful senator's name.

“You look more like a harmless butterfly to me.” The judge licked his thick lips and allowed his eyes to roam up and down her person.

Repulsed, she lifted her chin and met his gaze with a cold stare. His suggestive smile faded. His expression hardened. He picked up a stylus and scribbled notes on a piece of parchment. The chair he sat on creaked as he leaned back to sneer at her. “So tell me, is your accuser a suitor who wants revenge because you've shunned him? Or are you truly a follower of that crucified agitator, Jesus of Nazareth?”

The temptation to lie called to her. Her own sense of self-preservation betrayed her. The fear of torture and death played havoc with her reason. An insidious voice whispered inside her head,
Won't God forgive you if you deny Him just this once?

The magistrate's brow pleated with impatience. “Come on, tell the truth, girl. You've nothing to fear if you're a faithful subject of the emperor.”

She tugged at the ropes binding her wrist. “I…”

“On the other hand, if you're a follower of Jesus, you'll follow Him straight to the arena.”

Her head began to throb. Judging from his blunt tone, she didn't doubt he'd sent many Christians to their deaths. She struggled not to show her terror. A simple denial and her life would be hers again. As would the chance to be with the man she loved. Every facet of her being demanded she set aside her faith and follow her heart.

“Well, spit it out. I have other cases to try today.”

Her resolve hardened to flint, she released a pent up breath. “I…I'm a loyal subject of the emperor.”

“Silly wench. Why didn't you just say—”

“But Jesus is my God.”

The guard shuffled his feet behind her. His shadow overtook hers on the floor as he moved closer.

“Are you certain you don't want to reconsider?” The magistrate smirked. “I'd hate to send such a beautiful woman to die.”

She shook her head. “I won't change my mind.”

He shrugged, then snapped his fingers. “Guard, take her to a holding cell in the arena. Tomorrow we'll see if she feels the same when she faces the lions.”

P
elonia's guard led her down a dark corridor beneath the amphitheater. Bound and chained like the worst sort of criminal, she was trembling so hard she felt bruised from head to toe. The afternoon's games had yet to finish and the mob's roar dripped down to the holding pens like acid. Memories of the wolves ran rampant in her mind. She clung to her faith, praying incessantly to keep from going mad with fear.

The stench of urine and death gagged her. Weeping, angry tirades and insane ramblings escaped the condemned held in cells on each side of the narrow corridor.

The guard stopped abruptly and opened a cell to her right. Rodents shrieked and scurried to the shadows as torchlight invaded their subterranean nest.

“Welcome home, wench.” The guard untied her hands and shoved her inside. Her ankles still shackled, she stumbled and slammed into the wall at the back of the tiny stall. “Don't worry,” he said with a laugh, “you won't be here long. The mob will get their chance at you tomorrow. I hope your God appreciates you dying for Him.”

“He did the same for me and you.”

The guard grunted in reply. The door slammed behind him as he left, taking the light with him. Surrounded by darkness, she rubbed her arms to start the flow of blood after being bound and numb for hours. The chill of the place invaded her bones until her teeth began to chatter.

From across the hall, a tortured moan carried through the small, bar-covered opening in her door. Chains rattled and the cries for help from her fellow prisoners fell on deaf ears.

“Dear God, please help me,” she whispered. “I need You like I've never needed You before. Please help me accept Your will. I offer You a sacrifice of praise, knowing that You alone are my Rock and my Salvation.”

A sense of sweet peace settled over her and she recognized the influence of the Holy Spirit, her Comforter. In the months since her father's death, she'd known the Spirit was with her, but she hadn't
felt
His presence as she did now. A song of praise bubbled to her lips. Words of thanksgiving flowed from her mouth. The longer she focused on the Lord, the less she focused on her troubles or herself.

 

Caros left his horse with his Greek champion, Alexius, and pushed through the crowd leaving the amphitheatre. Charging down the steps that led to the behemoth's underbelly, he passed the waiting line and entered the editor's office.

“Get out,” he ordered the client already in discussions with Spurius. Without hesitation, the man jumped to his feet, gathering an armful of half-rolled scrolls before he scuttled out the door.

Spurius leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands over the mountain of his belly. “Caros, you're here. I didn't expect you this quickly.”

“I came as soon as I heard from you. Where is she?”

“She's in a holding cell like the magistrate ordered.”

His gut clenched at the thought of Pelonia in one of the pits. “How much for her freedom?”

“What's she worth to you?”

Everything.
Caros shrugged. “Fifteen hundred denarii is the usual price for a female slave.”

Spurius chuckled and shuffled a few parchments on his desktop. “But this female is most unusual, is she not?

He studied his crafty former master with growing impatience. “Spurius, I have no time for games. Tell me her price so I can take her and leave.”

“Her price is…
your
freedom.”

Staggered by the unexpected blow, Caros willed himself to stay in control. “Explain.”

“It's simple. You declare your loyalty to me—”

“You mean enslave myself again.” The very thing he'd sworn never to do.

“Whatever you want to call it is up to you.”

“I call it extortion.”

“Perhaps.” Spurius picked up a piece of parchment from his desk and began to roll it into a tube. “But if you want to see your woman returned to you unharmed, you'll meet my terms.”

“Then she
is
unharmed?”

“For the time being, but that can change with the wind.”

“You black-hearted worm! She's an innocent—”

“She's a commodity.” Spurius stood up to put some distance between them. “While you and I are men of business. If you wish to buy my goods, let's strike a bargain. If not, I need to get back to those waiting in line outside my door.”

Seething, Caros surged to his feet, his chair falling backward to crash against the concrete floor. “Then name your terms, old man,
all
of them and be warned, I know what a backstabbing cheat you are, so I'll have a few of my own.”

“Your woman must have gold between her legs. What
else could inspire such ardor in the iron heart of Caros Viriathos?” The editor chuckled. “You haven't turned Christian, have you? Is that why you're concerned for her plight?”

“No,” he answered, his voice cast in stone.

“Then you must be in love with the wench.” Spurius's eyes took on a greedy light. “My terms are simple. Declare loyalty to me. Fight in the arena tomorrow for the amusement of the mob and your payment will be the girl. I'll take care of all legal ramifications if there are any, though I can't think there will be once I've paid off the magistrate.”

On the surface, Spurius's terms were basic enough, but Caros saw through the loopholes immediately. “I'll agree to your terms—with some clarifications. First, I'll fight for you tomorrow afternoon for one contest and one contest only. Then I'll be a free man again. Second, I'll entertain the mob and make your riches for you. As my reward, Pelonia, my former slave—not just any girl—will be released and waiting for me alive, unharmed and well when I leave the arena. If I die, she'll be granted her freedom and returned unharmed to Senator Antonius Tacitus under the same terms she would have been given to me. Third, Pelonia will accompany me home tonight and return with me to the arena tomorrow. Fourth, this agreement will be put in writing and a copy delivered to my steward within the hour. Fifth, you will never darken my door or approach me to enter the arena again. If you do, you'll understand it's at your peril. And if you
ever
make another lewd suggestion concerning my woman, I'll make you wish you were dead. Am I clear?”

The editor swallowed hard and nodded. “Done, except for taking the girl home tonight. The magistrate's a stickler for body counts.”

“Then release her to stay with her cousin at the senator's palace tonight and I'll take her place in the pit.”

“Done!” The editor slapped his desk and did a little jig of glee. “Was that so difficult? Shall we have a drink to celebrate?”

Caros ignored the man and made for the door. He found Alexius waiting outside the editor's office. The corridor was less hectic, but a line remained to wait for Spurius.

“Who's he?” Alexius tipped his head toward a young man following them.

“Spurius's lackey. We're going to the holding cells. He's to speak with the jailer.”

“Judging from your expression, the situation can't get worse.”

“No,” Caros admitted. “I've agreed to reenter the ring.”

Alexius halted. “Impossible!”

“No. Spurius promised Pelonia's freedom if I fight one last time.”

Alexius swore in Greek and hurried to catch up with Caros's quick steps. “So the dog's finally found your Achilles' heel. He's been after you for years to return to the games.”

They both knew it was true. Only for Pelonia would he set aside his vow and become a slave again. Their rapid steps clipped along the concrete floor.

“I'm granting you your freedom,” Caros said.

“I don't want it.”

“As your master, I'm ordering you to take it.”

Alexius frowned, but gave an ill-tempered nod of acceptance.

“While I'm in the arena, you'll be the
lanista
of the Ludus Maximus.”

“You're mad!” Alexius's frown deepened.

“So everyone says. Now listen to me. We haven't much time. If I lose, Gaius will help you take control of the school. I've spoken with my steward in times past con
cerning this matter. He knows I intend for you to be my successor. I want you to train the men well. Pay special attention to the new man, Quintus. He has much to offer. Can I count on you?”

“How can I say no?” The Greek tried to smile. “You better
not
die…or I'll hunt you down in the afterlife and kill you myself.”

“Ha! Even in death I'd best you.” Grateful to have Alexius by his side, Caros thumped him on the back. “Don't worry, my friend, you won't have to be a free man for long. I expect to live and when the contest is over, I
will
want my school returned.”

They stopped at the stairs leading down to the holding cells. Caros clapped his champion on the shoulder. “I'd like a few moments alone with Pelonia, but afterward you're to escort her to the senator's palace.”

“This is madness. Why are you staying here when you have to fight tomorrow? You should be eating well and sleeping better in preparation. Just bring her home with us.”

“No, it's part of the agreement.”

“She's not going to let you take her place in the ring without a fight.”

“She has no choice.” Caros whipped the tail of his cloak over his forearm and started down the steep steps, the other two men following close on his heels.

At the holding level, the situation was explained and the jailer led him and Alexius through the complex maze of corridors to Pelonia's cell. Spurius's man returned to his master.

“Is that…singing I hear?” Alexius asked.

Caros listened to the faint song. “I believe so,” he said with equal bewilderment.

“Obviously things have changed,” the Greek said dryly. “There was nothing to sing about the last time I was here.”

“Things haven't changed enough. It still smells like a sewer.”

The melody grew louder. There was more than one voice and though the atmosphere was dank and cold, the usual moans and cries of the condemned were minimal.

“This way,” the jailer said, leading them down a narrow hallway alive with singing voices. “You want to see the wench who started this racket. Before she got here, these Christians were resigned to their fate. Now they're praising their God like they've all lost their minds.”

The key grated in the lock. Caros took the torch and sent the jailer on his way. To Alexius, he ordered, “Keep watch. I'll be a few moments, no more.”

Caros pushed open the door and ducked to enter the cell without bumping his head. He placed the torch in the holder on the wall. His heart stopped when he saw Pelonia. Bathed in the fire's glow, she stood in the tiny cell, hands raised shoulder high, her eyes closed. Deep in meditation, she had yet to realize she wasn't alone.

She'd never looked more beautiful to him than she did in that moment. Surrounded by the moldy walls of her prison, he saw her for the indomitable spirit she was. He prided himself on strength, but next to her, he was a sapling compared to an oak.

Her sweet voice caressed his ears, stirring him to marvel at the greatness of her God, a God awesome enough to inspire worship even in the depths of a gaol.

Her song ended, though others down the corridor continued with their praise. Lowering her arms, Pelonia opened her eyes. A smile of such pure joy touched her face he was struck dumb by the splendor of it.

“Caros? What are you doing here?” She came to him, wrapping her arms around his waist to nestle close.

He closed his eyes and hugged her tight, dying a little inside when he realized that if the match didn't go his way tomorrow he'd never hold her again. He kissed the top of her head. “I came to rescue you. I thought you'd be terrified, but I see you've made yourself at home.”

She laughed, but he felt the dampness of her tears through the linen of his tunic. “It's home now that you're here.”

Startled by the admission, he lifted her chin and kissed her softly, his heart swelling with love until he thought his chest might burst with emotion. “Why didn't you lie this once and tell them—”

“Shhh…” She placed her fingertips over his lips. “You know why. I'd never deny my Lord.”

He nodded, accepting her loyalty and belief in Jesus were part of what made her unique. “I know.”

“But I
was
tempted.”

“Of course you were,” he said, doing his best to relieve the guilt in her eyes. “Who wouldn't want to cling to life when death is breathing down your neck?”

“No, I'm not afraid to die.” She tried to smile. “I'm afraid of the pain beforehand, certainly, but not death itself. That's not why I was tempted.”