Chapter 2
Kallias allowed Penthesilea to lead him back to her ludus in silence.
He assessed her as they walked the short distance.
She seemed steady on her feet, except for the brief wobble when she’d stood up too fast, but she moved with a heaviness that spoke of fatigue.
The quick, brutal grace she’d exhibited in the arena had disappeared.
While fighting, she’d seemed as tall and powerful as her queen namesake.
He’d been surprised to discover that up close, she didn’t tower over them all.
She was of average height for a woman, a handspan shorter than himself.
And she’d behaved with such diffidence, such uncertainty in front of Gaius and Drusilla—head bowed, eyes down, a far cry from the fierce warrior who’d taken a stab wound without flinching and even managed to defeat her unwounded opponent.
Up close, he’d also noticed her beauty. Her features had a delicacy that seemed at odds with her brutal profession.
Her eyes glowed a dark hazel, greens and browns mixing like an autumn forest. A coil of dark hair was secured at the back of her head, probably sewn in place, but a few strands had slipped loose in her fight.
They fluttered around her face, framing it like the inky strokes of a pen.
She reminded him of an oleander flower: beautiful to look at, deadly if one got too close.
He couldn’t help but be curious about her; only a handful of female gladiators graced the arena, and he’d always wondered how they ended up in that life. “I like fighting,” she’d said to Gaius. Was that true?
They reached the ludus, a walled cluster of buildings. A guard at the gate stood aside when he saw Penthesilea and let them pass with a curious glance at Kallias.
Penthesilea trudged toward a low, long building. Inside stretched a narrow corridor lined with doors—the barracks where the gladiators slept. It was quiet; most of its inhabitants must have been at the games.
She paused before one door. “This is my room.”
He nodded. “Make sure you rest. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”
She stopped him with a raised hand as he turned to leave.
“Since you’re here—can I borrow your shears?
I need to get this off me.” She lifted a hand to the neckline of her knee-length tunic and plucked at something within.
He hadn’t noticed earlier, but a strip of fabric peeked out above the opening of her tunic, which appeared to be wrapped tight around her chest.
He realized she must bind her breasts before fighting, and the fabric was likely sewn in place. No wonder she wanted to get out of it—it looked damned uncomfortable. “Of course.” He rifled in his satchel and came up with the pair of tiny shears he’d used to cut the silk thread earlier.
Lea took them with a murmur of thanks and stepped inside her room.
She nudged the door with her elbow, but it didn’t close all the way, leaving a small gap through which he could see her slide the shears inside her tunic.
After a few snips, she pulled out a long length of cloth with a grateful sigh.
Fullness swelled beneath the fabric of her tunic. Warmth flooded his cheeks. He should look away—that would be the polite thing to do—but he couldn’t stop staring at the unexpected shapeliness revealed by the removed bindings. How in Hades did she manage to strap those things down?
Finally, he tore his gaze away, focusing instead on the battered wood of the doorframe in front of him.
For Kallias, breasts were not a requirement for attraction. He was equally drawn to men and women, and had known pleasure with a variety of lovers. But the sudden appearance of Penthesilea’s breasts, even covered by her tunic, made a prickly heat creep over his skin.
Perhaps it had just been too long since he’d lain with anyone.
He hadn’t pursued any trysts since gaining his freedom several months ago.
It was a simple thing for one slave to lie with another, but now that he was a freedman, things seemed more complicated.
His new status, not to mention his closeness to the emperor, meant that a potential partner might feel like they couldn’t say no.
He remembered all too well what it was like to bite back a refusal, to force himself to go along with something he didn’t want. So it was safer to keep his distance from those he worked with at the palace.
“Here.” The door swung open fully, and Penthesilea handed back his shears.
He took them, trying his best not to look at her, and stowed them in his bag. “Drink plenty of water and eat a good meal. Don’t use that arm. I’ll return tomorrow.”
“You don’t need to come back. Our physician can see to it.”
Kallias shook his head. “The emperor ordered me to see to your wound. That means the entire process of healing.”
She let out a defeated sigh, perhaps too wearied to argue. “Fine. Tomorrow.” Then she closed the door in his face.
Kallias left the ludus and ambled through the streets toward the imperial palace. It was rare for him to be outside the palace, and he savored the freedom.
Freedom. It was a more complicated concept than it should have been.
Having been born into slavery, Kallias spent his youth as a physician’s assistant before becoming a physician in his own right, working for Gaius’s family.
He had been granted his freedom a few months ago, shortly after Gaius ascended the throne.
The years before that, under the previous emperor Tiberius, had been some of the darkest of Kallias’s life.
The power struggles within the imperial family had seen Gaius’s mother and two older brothers exiled, later dead, leaving Gaius as sole heir.
Tiberius, paranoid that Gaius would attempt to seize power on his own, had confined the young man and his household—including Kallias—to Tiberius’s villa at Capri.
Gaius had been both heir apparent and political hostage. One wrong move, one ill-considered word, and Kallias knew they all would have found themselves either exiled or simply executed.
But somehow, Gaius had managed to walk a careful, deadly line, and they had all survived.
Things were, overall, better. Kallias no longer went to bed each night fearing he’d be woken by a sword to his throat, or simply not wake at all.
Gaius was on the throne, and Kallias was a freedman with a position many would envy.
The curse of freedom, however, was that it made him want things. Things which previously had been so far out of his reach that he hadn’t even dared imagine them. He wanted to help people who actually needed it—like an intriguing female gladiator with a stab wound.
But the emperor demanded Kallias’s presence on a near-constant basis. As a child, Gaius had suffered from the falling sickness, and he lived in fear that it would recur despite Kallias’s many reminders that the ailment had been absent for at least a decade and showed no signs of reappearing.
Gaius was equally obsessive about the health of his beloved sister, Drusilla; she could barely clear her throat without him worrying that she’d contracted a deadly malady.
Legally, Kallias might be free, but when the most powerful man in the world wanted him by his side nearly every waking moment, the legality of freedom was a peripheral matter.
A ruckus on the street ahead tore Kallias from his morose thoughts—a crash, shouts, a cry of pain. Kallias broke into a jog toward the noise.
A small crowd of people had assembled near a two-story building. A wooden balcony protruded from the upper story, and the railing in the center had splintered. Kallias instantly realized what had caused the commotion: someone must have fallen from the balcony.
Kallias pushed through the crowd. “Move,” he snapped. A few well-placed jabs of his elbow induced the most stubborn onlookers to shuffle aside. Finally, he saw what they were all gaping at—a man lay half on the ground, half atop a large sack of grain that must have been placed beneath the balcony.
The man groaned in pain. His arm protruded from his shoulder at an unnatural angle.
“Father!” A young man, perhaps in his late teens, raced out of the building, white-faced. “What happened? I heard a crash!”
The man struggled to rise, but fell back with a gasp of pain. Even so, he forced a smile. “That pesky railing decided to give way just as I leaned on it. Thank the gods your mother isn’t home. Though she’ll probably murder me even if I survive this for not fixing that railing.”
Kallias dropped to his knees next to the fallen man, assessing him quickly. The sack of grain had perhaps softened his fall, but the uneven impact seemed to have dislocated his shoulder.
“You’ll survive,” Kallias said. “Your wife will have every opportunity to murder you, if she so chooses. I’m a physician,” he explained. “It looks like you’ve dislocated your shoulder. Does anywhere else pain you? Did you hit your head?”
“I-I don’t think so.” The man closed his eyes for a moment. “No, it’s just my shoulder. Dis, it hurts, though.”
His son glanced anxiously at Kallias. “Will my father be all right?”
“I believe so.” A dislocated shoulder was a deceptively easy injury to fix. He nodded to the boy. “You. Go on your father’s other side and hold him steady.”
The boy obeyed immediately, placing hands on his father’s chest and good shoulder.
Kallias took hold of the man’s wrist and drew his arm down toward his side.
“Try to relax your arm.” Kallias moved the man’s wrist in small circles, slowly raising the arm to the level of the shoulder.
The man hissed with pain, but remained still.
“Almost there,” Kallias murmured, rotating the arm. He lifted it higher, continuing the slow circular movement, until suddenly the arm popped back into place.
The boy drew in a sharp breath. “Is it fixed? Does it still hurt?”
The man blinked, turning his head to stare down at the affected shoulder. “I…how did you do that?” He gazed up at Kallias in wonder.
“I’m afraid fixing dislocated joints is not worthy of much praise.
It’s no more difficult than sliding a key into the proper lock.
” Kallias rummaged in his bag, withdrawing a bundle of bandages.
“Let me put your arm in a sling. You’ll have some pain and stiffness, and you’ll need to rest that arm for a while. ”
The man gingerly lifted himself into a sitting position using his good arm, his son supporting him. Kallias folded the man’s arm to his chest and tied the bandages into a sling to keep the arm still.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” the man said as Kallias carefully helped him to stand. “We have some money—”
Kallias held up a hand. “No payment is necessary. Though if you’ll permit it, I would like to pay you a visit tomorrow.
I can bring a poultice to help with the swelling.
” Since he had to check on Penthesilea anyway, he’d be able to couple the visits without making his absence from the palace conspicuous.
“Thank you very much,” the man said. “We’re in your debt. My name is Flaccus, and my son is Sextus.”
Kallias gave his name in return. Sextus looped his father’s good arm around his shoulders, and after another round of profuse thanks, they disappeared back into the house.
Kallias grinned to himself as he hefted his bag and continued on his way. He felt happier than he had in ages after dealing with not one, but two interesting and urgent injuries. This was what his knowledge and years of experience were meant for.
He still remembered the buoyancy that had filled him after Gaius emancipated him. He’d felt as if he could go anywhere, do anything, the world at his feet. Finally, he could leave the service of this pernicious family and do something that truly made him happy.
That day, he’d packed his things and then gone to inform the emperor that he was leaving. He could recall the befuddled expression on Gaius’s face with painful clarity. “Leaving? But you can’t leave.”
“I-I can’t?”
“Of course not. I still need you. So does Drusilla.”
“But—you freed me—”
A benign smile. “Yes, and now I can compensate you as you deserve for your skill and loyalty. I’ve been generous, haven’t I?”
Kallias was forced to give a reluctant nod. His new wage was indeed lavish.
“But you’re still mine.” The emperor clapped his hands, and a Praetorian Guard instantly appeared. “My men will help you unpack.”
Kallias had found himself escorted back to his room. Two Praetorians glowered at him as he unpacked his belongings, piece by piece. The message had been clear, and he did not try to leave again.
He knew he should be grateful for the respect and security of his position. But it was cloying, like an unpleasant perfume that clung to one’s clothes, and as he made his way back to the palace, each step felt heavier and heavier.