The ex-centurion knew if the Romans caught him, he was dead. Marius felt the horse strain under his thighs. The animal’s
head split the air in front of them. Wind roared, mingling with the pounding of Marius’ heart and the jolting rumble of hooves against
the forest floor. Blood flowed from a throbbing wound on his shoulder and spattered behind him, staining the horse’s rump. He tightened
his grip on the reins, bowing his head low over the animal’s neck. The smell of horseflesh was stringent in his nose.
A grim thought
flashed through his mind. He may never hold Delia again. Marius’ throat tightened. He dug his heels into Brutus and forced him to
move faster. He would make it up to the horse later, if he survived.
The forest blurred around him. Brown, green, branches growing
like twisted mirages charging at him out of the foggy morning. He dodged them, sometimes successfully–sometimes not. His head and
good shoulder ached where they sliced him. The movement of the horse’s massive leg muscles deadened his thighs, making it difficult
to manipulate the beast. Despite the speed, Brutus knew his master well and needed little guidance. Marius missed the Roman armor
he had worn for twenty-five years, but the Celtic clothes gave him more freedom to manage the animal. He was slowly adjusting to being
a citizen—very slowly.
Risking another glimpse over his shoulder, Marius saw nothing but the trees receding. The sound of jangling
Roman horse tack, the shouts of Latin curses, and the frustrated bellows of General Suetonius had also faded. If he was lucky, the
soldiers followed him into the woods, giving the refugees a chance to escape the blades or manacles of the governor’s revenge. A wave
of satisfaction sent a bemused smile across his face knowing they had once again out maneuvered the general. Except for the unexpectedpila that grazed his arm, he had done well. If they did not catch him, he would count this a success.
When it was safe, Marius stopped
and examined the wound, wincing when the gap opened a little wider beneath his fingers. It would need a surgeon’s needle to close
it properly. Delia was going to be furious. He could almost hear her voice; Not ONLY have your ruined the shirt I made for you, but
they could have killed you. You have to be more careful! I will not raise this child on my own. Do you understand me?
Even seven months
pregnant, Delia was still a fortune of fire, a passion of untamed spirit. Marius sighed. This would not improve her mood and another
fight was inevitable. He sometimes forgot Delia was a Briton queen and leader of the Corieltauvi tribe. This always made their relationship
interesting.
“You are going to have to be faster than that, liberatio.”
Marius drew his sword, forcing Brutus to rear onto his back
legs when the voice bounced against the trees to his right. The armored figure emerged from the forest with seven Roman soldiers at
his back. Marius swore.
The sand at Marius’ feet was dark, stained with the blood of the dead, and dying. All around him, three thousand Roman men and women,
proper citizens all, roared until the timbers of the decaying arena shook with the sound. Roman soldiers were noticeably absent. Without
their intervention, the men and women became a crowd, and the crowd became a mob.
Fistfights, loud drunks, and chaos ruled the circled
seating, even though the sun had only moments before climbed over the horizon. It was barely dawn. The administrators flitted from
incident to incident in an attempt to quell the bedlam. Until the match started, Marius knew their efforts would be useless. People
were there for blood. Only violence in the sand would settle their tempers.
Dew sparkled on the ground in shadowed places. Despite
the clinging wetness of morning, sand stirred under Marius’ shifting feet. It smelled of musk and misery. The dusty odor mixed with
that of his sweat, food frying from nearby vendors, and an odd assortment of Roman perfumes, doused on women and men alike to drown
the stench of their overindulgence. Marius had always hated the rich, even when he took the oath to protect them.
A poorly padded
bronze helmet encased his head amplifying the noise until is rang thunderously in his ears. It was unornamented with no faceplate
and Marius was grateful. He would need his wits to fight and gladiatorial faceplates limited your vision.
Blackened leather surrounded
his right arm countered by a bronze greave strapped to his left shin. They were ill fitting and hot. On his left arm was the familiar
scutum used by Roman soldiers in battle. The weight of the painted wooden shield was as familiar to him as the hob-nailed leather
sandals on his feet. If allowed, he would have thrown the other accoutrements aside; he did not need them. Otherwise, he was naked
except for the leather loincloth, the balteus circling his waist, and the iron bands around his wrists and ankles. He adjusted his
hand over the grip of the gladius. The sword was not as good as the one he was accustomed to, but it was well maintained and sharp.
Thane stood next to him in the center of the arena, similarly appointed. The tall man flexed his arms while the magistrate tried to
calm the crowds.
Marius scanned the arena in one hard glance, sizing up the position of the sixteen other gladiators standing stiff
in front of the magistrate’s box. In cages behind them were two mangy lions. They roared at the men, poked by a slave to agitate them.
Marius knew several days would have passed since they had eaten. This made them vicious and ready for the attack. He hoped the beasts
were for a later match, and not intended to end the first.
To the right of the line of men stood Salonius and his second in full gladiatorial
uniforms, shielded, and armed like the rest of them. Above him in the stands sat the slaver Abella with several of his men. Seated
between them were three small boys, the Syrian’s motivations.
Marius cursed under his breath.
