The Winged Serpent (The Order of the Oath) (5 page)

Within her eyes he saw what she did not say. She called him a liar, then a coward. He kept his face blank, even as his gut churned with anger.

He gestured for Flavius to retrieve the
gladius
and shield, deciding this fight would be over soon enough. He would see who the coward was when she begged for him to call an end to the match, when she begged for mercy.

Marching across the arena with long strides, he took up a position far enough away from the battle, but close enough to see. When he turned back around, she was gripping the hilt of the sword within her hand, and her gaze speared him.

“Your
dominus
told you to match
your
skills against mine, not those of one of your men. What will he say when he finds that you have disobeyed him?” she challenged.

Cyrus held back a snort. Claudius would never know otherwise. Despite the fact that the gladiators of this
ludus
were the source of his vast wealth, Claudius was only mildly interested in the testing and training of his men, leaving most of the decisions to him as
doctoris
. Cyrus glanced up at the balcony, which was adjacent to Claudius’ private chambers. It was empty—as it usually was.

He returned his gaze to Aurora. “
Our dominus
has given me leave to assess you as I see fit, and this is how I see fit.”

He did not explain himself further, for he did not owe this woman an explanation at all. That he’d given her this much was more than enough.

Besides, she had no more time to ask questions after that because with his two fingers raised in the air, he signaled for the match to begin.

* * * *

Cyrus had introduced her opponent as Flavius, and she circled him, her
gladius
loose in her grip, ready to strike. At the same time, she held her
parma
close, prepared to wield it as a weapon or to deflect the blow of her opponent.

Flavius must have thought her as unworthy an adversary as his
doctoris
because he charged her like a mad bull, exposing himself to an attack.

Aurora did not hesitate.

She took advantage, her wooden blade striking his side, leaving an angry red welt.

His face registered surprise, which was soon replaced by deadly focus, and determination. He realized his error and would not be quick to repeat it. After that, the match began in earnest, becoming a true test of her skills.

Their shields crunched together, and he lifted his sword, slicing down upon her. She met his blade, deflecting his blow, pushing him back.

Flavius attacked her ruthlessly, relentlessly. It was all she could do to raise her shield to deflect his powerful thrusts and lightening quick strikes. Sweat poured from her body, trickling down her back, along the valley of her breasts. Her
tunica
clung to her frame, the warm balmy air inflaming her already heated skin.

It had been so long since she’d sparred in this manner that her body protested. Even still her instructions in The Order were far superior, far more brutal, and of all the Keepers of the Oath, Aurora was known as one of the best because she continued to train daily. So she ignored the discomfort—the aches roiling through her, the burning fire eating away at her lungs—as if the pain did not exist.

Aurora took each blow, absorbing the force into her body, her teeth rattling as she waited out Flavius’ strikes. While he pummeled her shield and sword with slashes of his blade, she looked closely, carefully for the sign she’d always waited for when she’d owned the arena, for the sign she’d waited for as she’d trained for her position within The Order.

Flavius was skilled, but no different from the others.

His eyes were wide, weary.

His jaw slack, his chest heaving.

His bare torso was covered in rivulets of sweat, and his tawny locks clung to his wide forehead.

When his fingers curled then uncurled around the hilt of his
gladius
, she gathered he was finally fatigued, and that was when Aurora lifted her weapon in earnest, unleashing her full fury upon him.

She battered him, pushing him back.

At first he met her blows, deflecting her strikes, until he could do so no longer, until his arm yielded beneath her flurry. His last defense against her was his shield, which he wielded with expert skill, despite his fatigue. She experienced a moment’s admiration. The young man had heart, but he was just that,
young
and with it, inexperienced.

Aurora lifted her sword, prepared to strike, but waited until he lifted his shield in anticipation of the pounding of her blade against the wood.

Her strike did not come, at least not to his head. At the last moment, she crouched down and slashed at his calf sending him sprawling backwards, until his body slammed against the earth and he lay prostrate upon the ground.

When he opened his eyes the tip of her blade was pressed against his throat.

He raised two fingers, a signal within the arena that he was yielding, that he was conceding defeat.

His eyes were bashful, sheepish even, but when he grinned, she returned his smile with a nod of respect and stepped back, her sword falling to her side.

Her chest heaved, while streams of sweat poured down her body, and her hair was now a twisted, matted nest of curls, the long braid clinging to her drenched tunic.

She closed her eyes and drew it in—the sights, the sounds, the feeling of victory.

In that moment she was a gladiator once again, the mistress of the arena, beloved by all. The feeling was heady, its power corruptive, corrosive until it wore away every trace of one’s soul, until killing was no longer second nature, but the very nature of the wild, untamed beast a gladiator had to become.

Aurora started at the sound of applause, her eyes flying open in surprise. She tilted her head, following the steady beat.

Claudius Norbanus stood on his balcony, his smile broad.

“Well done, Aurora. Well done,” he shouted, still clapping. She dipped her head in a show of respect but when she raised it, he was already gone, as if she’d imagined him. The clapping had stopped.

In its absence, another sound replaced it, the sound of footsteps drawing near.

Aurora noticed then that Flavius had stood up and was walking out of the arena.

The footsteps she’d heard were not his. Instead they belonged to Cyrus who came to a stop before her.

She could no more discern his thoughts by looking at him than she could by gazing upon the barren earth. His eyes were empty, his face devoid of the barest hint of emotion.

She held still, her shield in one hand, her
gladius
in the other and waited.

* * * *

Though he was not winded, Cyrus’ breath came out as ragged pants as he neared the woman at the center of the arena.

Aurora.

She stood regal and proud, her head raised to the sky. She stood as a gladiator would upon victory, upon triumph.

She’d protested her skills were worn. Well, to Cyrus, it would not appear as such.

She’d outmaneuvered Flavius, almost as if not a single day had passed since she’d been upon the sacred and hallowed sands of the arena.

Cyrus begrudgingly gave her his respect, from one gladiator to the other, although he did not reveal she had it, in either word or deed.

But she did.

Just as she now had his full attention, unwavering in its intensity.

It was the way in which she commanded his gaze that had his breathing labored and his manhood swelling within the confines of his leather
braca.

Aurora had fought with concerted focus and deadly precision, her movements decisive and strategic, her strikes meticulously chosen. Her discipline bespoke of diligent training, which he admired, but it was her eyes he’d found impossible to look away from when he should have been studying her battle form.

Her eyes had glowed bronze, her mass of unruly hair creating a halo around her. Aurora’s eyes had revealed the warrior’s heart, the warrior’s spirit. Cyrus had seen women gladiators before, but he’d never seen one such as her. She was as beautiful as she was fierce. She was as disciplined as she was untamed.

“Are you tired?” he asked, his body thrilling when she shook her head
no.
“Then lift your sword,” he instructed.

A smile curled her lips, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “So now that you see I am worthy, you wish to humble me with defeat?”

“Who said you were worthy?”

“You did not, I suppose. Though it is
you
who are not worthy. I do not believe there is any man within this
ludus
who can best me, not even you.”

His brows knitted together. “One victory and already you boast. I see there is still much for you to learn.” As he talked, he noticed she lifted her sword, and began to circle. He kept his gaze trained upon her, but he did not move his feet.

“You forget Cyrus, this is not my first time within a
ludus—
”

“But there is always more to learn.”

She stopped. “That is true of all.” Her eyes narrowed, and he did not move a muscle under the weight of her scrutiny. “But you do not believe you have anything left to learn.” Her lips crooked into a grin. “Who is the arrogant one now?”

“Are you quite done catching your breath?” he demanded, and watched as one delicately arched brow peaked, her grin fanning out across her face.

“You are not as clever as you think you are.”

His expression did not change, but his eyes flashed, providing the only hint that he found her amusing.

“And neither are you.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before she lifted her sword and attacked, their bodies colliding into one another. Unlike with Flavius, she did not wait for him to tire, for she knew such a tactic would result in her defeat. He was far more skilled than Flavius. His body far stronger, much more powerful, his movements quicker. She would expend herself by simply taking his blows. So she didn’t.

Instead she moved with a quickness she’d not shown in her fight with Flavius, she moved with a quiet grace that bespoke of training beyond her days in the arena. Cyrus did not underestimate her grace, or mistake it for gentleness. Every strike he met with his sword he felt vibrating through his entire body, to the very tips of his toes. He was as precise as she, choosing his advances carefully, the same for his retreats.

He admired her impressive skill, her battle tactics. She was a clever fighter. When he tried to overpower her with brute strength, she responded with swift, unrelenting advances, moving so fast he could not rely upon his strength. And she was faster than him, her lean body lighter than his as it twisted effortlessly through the air like a lioness springing into action upon scenting her prey.

Their skills were equally matched. Every maneuver he used, she countered. Every tactic she employed, he deflected. So when his strength failed him, followed by his speed, and his skill was countered by hers, Cyrus resorted to the only thing left to him.

When their bodies were weary and dripping in sweat, the silver moon shimmering above them, he stopped. Cyrus froze right there and lowered his sword, along with his shield.

The lines of concentration upon her face eased, her eyes filling with relief.

“Thank the gods,” she exclaimed, dropping her sword.

As soon as it hit the ground, he charged.

Her eyes widened and she brandished her shield, but it was already too late. He slipped past her defenses, and easily disarmed her, spinning her around so that her back was pressed to his front and his arm was wrapped securely about her neck, the tip of his blade nudging her throat.

“That was an underhanded trick,” she breathed out.

“I did not signal the match was at an end, nor that I was surrendering. You should never have relinquished your weapon. You know better,” he said between pants, lowering his sword, though he still held her firmly to him.

“I would not have done so in the arena.” She tilted her head to the side, peering up at him. “But I thought this was a friendly match, one to test my skills. I had no idea you were so averse to losing that you would cheat.”

Cyrus snorted. “I did not cheat. You are simply upset that you were not as clever.”

He should have known he was in trouble when her eyes sparkled dangerously.

“Not clever you say?”

One moment he was standing upright, holding her securely against him. The next, he was flat on
his
back, her thighs straddling his chest. Her weight pinned him firmly to the ground and he struggled not to wince when his back clenched in protest at having been slammed into the hard earth.

“Who is the clever one now?” she demanded.

“Clever? Who knew
you
were so averse to losing that you would cheat?”

“I hate to lose,” she said quietly. Her eyes still sparkled with amusement, but Cyrus noted the soft defiance in her voice. “I never lose.”