A Gladiator's Oath Read online

  A Gladiator's Oath

  Tanya Bird

  Copyright © 2018 by Tanya Bird

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  For my Dad.

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  Contents

  From the Satires of Juvenal

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Banning of female gladiators

  Where to now?

  Author’s note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Tanya Bird

  From the Satires of Juvenal

  Who has not seen the dummies of wood they slash at and batter

  Whether with swords or with spears, going through all the moves?

  These are the girls who blast on trumpets in honour of Flora.

  Or, it may be, they have deeper designs, and are really preparing for the arena itself.

  How can a woman be decent, sticking her head in a helmet, denying her sex she was born with?

  Manly feats they adore, but they wouldn’t want to be men,

  Poor weak things—they think—how little they really enjoy it!

  What great honour it is for a husband to see, at an auction

  Where his wife’s effects are up for sale: belts, greaves, manica, and plumes!

  Hear her grunt and groan as she works at it, parrying, thrusting;

  See her neck bent down under the weight of her helmet.

  Look at the rolls of bandage and tape, so her legs look like tree trunks.

  Then have a laugh for yourself after the practice is over,

  Armour and weapons are put down, and she squats as she uses the vessel.

  Ah, degenerate girls of the line of our praetors and consuls,

  Tell us, whom have you seen got up in any such fashion,

  Panting and sweating like this? No gladiator’s wench,

  No tough striptease broad would ever so much as attempt it.

  Prologue

  September 29, 199AD

  * * *

  It looked like any other sand-covered surface, but Mila knew the maze of tunnels below caged both men and beasts.

  She raised her eyes to sixty-five thousand spectators, from the emperor to the plebeians, all awaiting the spectacle of death. She kept her gaze up so she would not have to look at the blood-soaked sand where criminals had been put to death just moments earlier. Instead, she focused on the feel of the sword and the weight of the shield. Libertas. That was what they called her, despite the fact that she was not free. They could hardly herald a gladiator as Mila the Slave.

  She stopped walking to watch the reaction of the crowd. The sword turned in her hand as a rumble of applause pressed down on her. Not cheering—that would come later when the stakes were higher. It was a far cry from the arena at Ludus Magnus, where all she had heard was Remus’s familiar voice and the clapping of wooden swords. She found herself searching for him, trying to find him amid a sea of blurry faces. Was he outwardly calm while breaking apart inside—like she was?

  They called the Spaniard Hebe. The goddess of youth. She entered through the gate of life, striding towards Mila, chin up, her skin a polished contrast to the burned shoulders of a slave. Her breasts were partially covered with enough flesh on display to satisfy the men. She stopped a few feet from Mila, peering out at the crowd from beneath her helmet, and raised her shield to them. They responded with a roar that shifted the sand.

  Mila wished her own helmet could shield her from the noise. She shuddered, adjusting her grip on the weapons. Damp hands were never a good thing.

  The summa rudis approached, stick in hand, shouting instructions Mila could not hear amid the noise. Did her opponent hear? Unlikely. She was all but turned away from him, her sword hand resting on the curve of her hip. For a moment, their eyes met through the slits of their helmets. Strangers. In a moment, Hebe would try to kill her. In a moment, she would try to kill Hebe. That delicate skin would be bruised and broken, painted with sweat and blood.

  Mila’s gaze went to the crowd. Where was he? She did not know how to do this without him. Not entirely true—she just did not want to do it without him. ‘Shield up,’ he would shout, his tone sharper than a sword because he wanted her to live. Perhaps it was better he was not there. Whatever the outcome, she did not want to see his changed face in those final moments.

  ‘Gladiators ready!’

  Mila softened her knees, distributing her weight evenly. Was she ready? The thought alone was dangerous. Her opponent’s shield was raised, her knuckles whitening around her sword. The stadium crackled to life in that moment, the sound vibrating around them before drifting up to the open sky, as blue as Remus’s eyes.

  Her opponent lunged, the tip of her sword colliding with Mila’s shield.

  Live or die.

  She would not let the gods decide this one.

  Chapter 1

  Five months prior

  * * *

  The net snaked around Mila’s ankle. She knew in a few moments she would be lying on her back, the wind knocked from her lungs and a trident pressed to her throat. If her sword had been sharp, she might have cut herself free, but even a street fight in an arena marked off with charcoal had rules. The fifteen-year-old referee had checked all the weapons before they began.

  Thump. The air left her lungs. The swords fell from her hands, and the cool tips of a trident brushed the skin of her neck. Her opponent stared down at her, out of breath, a smug smile on his lips. The spectators clapped, and he stepped back from her. He looked to be around seventeen, a few years younger, but it was hard to tell as he was in need of a good meal. Mila sat up, watching as money exchanged hands, trying not to think about the extra coin she would have walked away with if she had just won.

  She spotted Nerva coming towards her, the crowd dispersing at the sight of him. Disapproval was etched on his face.

  ‘Did you forget you have feet?’ he asked, coming to a stop in front of her.

  She could not quite answer yet, her lungs struggling. He offered her his hand, and she took it. Dizzy, she folded over, holding onto her knees for a moment.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘If your father sees you—’

  ‘If he sees me?’ He shook his head. ‘If he sees you fighting, you will be sold faster than you can say goodbye to your sister.’

  She straightened, watching as he picked up her weapons, running a finger along the blunt edge of the blade.

  ‘I must admit, you are better than some who trained me.’

  She coughe
d, looking up at him. ‘Given you taught me, that is a compliment aimed at yourself.’

  He laughed, clapping her on the back. ‘Let us go before the watch shows up and arrests you.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Father is expecting me home.’

  She nodded, falling into step with him. ‘Another dinner party to recruit admirers?’

  ‘Something like that. How else does one secure a place in the senate?’

  At twenty, Nerva was about as interested in a political career as Mila was being a slave in his household.

  ‘Does your father know about the new horse yet?’

  Nerva looked around, frowning. ‘No, and I prefer he hear it from me.’ His grey eyes flashed at her.

  She looked down.

  Rufus Papias had big plans for his only living son—and they did not involve chariot racing. Well-bred, well-educated, and liked by all who knew him, it was expected that Nerva would follow him into the senate. Rufus was famous for saying that it took three successive generations to gain noble status, and one to lose it. And he liked to remind Nerva of the fact every day.

  It was no secret that Mila and Nerva shared a father, but as Nerva’s mother was domina of the house, and Mila’s mother a slave, that made Mila property of her dominus—not his daughter. Having inherited her father’s features and sharp mind, the blood connection did not go unnoticed. That was why her domina preferred to keep Mila hidden away in the laundry or kitchen. No one in the household spoke of it, nor did they mention the second daughter born seven years later. Even Nerva knew better than to bring the subject up, knowing his mother might one day insist the girls be sold.

  ‘Nerva Papias?’ came a voice behind them. They turned to see a large man wearing civilian clothes and cheap jewels striding towards them. Nerva relaxed at the sight of him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Gallus Minidius,’ he said, extending an arm.

  Nerva hesitated before taking hold of it.

  ‘This your slave?’ asked Gallus, glancing past him to Mila.

  Nerva studied the man. ‘Yes.’

  Gallus’s gaze swept over her and he nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw. ‘Pardon the interruption. I sponsor the games in Caelimontium, a small arena, some entertainment for plebeians in the evenings.’

  ‘You sponsor gladiatorial games?’

  Mila blinked at his snobbery, remaining silent. Nerva let her get away with a lot for a slave. In return, she never embarrassed him by overstepping around people.

  ‘Nothing fancy, I admit,’ Gallus laughed. ‘But we are always in need of entertainers.’

  Nerva crossed his arms. ‘What sort of entertainers?’

  Gallus nodded towards Mila. ‘All sorts, but especially women.’ Seeing Nerva’s sceptical expression, he added, ‘Nothing too serious. The girls use wooden swords—’

  ‘And roll about in the sand with their clothes off?’

  Gallus smiled, shifting his feet. ‘Sometimes, but your slave, your rules.’

  Nerva cleared his throat. ‘I am afraid my father would never approve of one his slaves being paraded bare-chested in front of drunk men.’

  Mila stared down at her feet.

  ‘They fight as hard as the men, and the winners are paid.’

  Mila looked up, and Nerva chuckled.

  ‘By gambling men?’

  Gallus shrugged. ‘I prefer to think of it as an entry fee.’

  Nerva turned his back to the man and gestured for Mila to walk. ‘Call it what you like. It does not change what it is. Nice to meet you, Gallus.’

  ‘And you,’ the man replied, watching them leave.

  Nerva walked in front, shaking his head. ‘Can you believe him?’

  Mila looked around before speaking, ensuring there was no one within earshot. ‘He thinks I am good enough to fight in an arena.’

  Nerva scoffed. ‘Hardly an arena. Besides, you lost back there.’

  ‘Against a man.’

  Nerva glanced over his shoulder. ‘Against a boy.’

  ‘It was my second fight for the afternoon. I was tired.’

  Nerva turned to face her. ‘Your second fight? Mila, this has to stop.’

  ‘It will. When I have enough coin.’

  He rolled his eyes and resumed walking again. ‘Why not do what other slaves do? Hope and pray.’

  She took a few fast steps to close the distance between them. ‘Hope and pray? Why should I harass the gods when I can simply buy freedom for myself?’

  They turned into another alleyway. Years of living in Rome had taught them to check their surroundings as they did so.

  ‘You have romanticised freedom,’ he said. ‘Look around. This is what awaits you if you leave.’ Violent coughing echoed through the narrow space. A man stepped into the alleyway, shouting at a woman who clutched her crying baby. They moved around them, continuing without a backwards glance. ‘You have lived happily in our household your entire life. Have you not been treated well?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you not eaten better than many of Rome’s citizens? Slept in comfort every night?’

  He did not understand. How could he? ‘I am not complaining. I know I have been more fortunate than most. But I am still a slave, for no crime other than being born.’

  ‘My father does not make the laws.’

  That was not entirely true—his father was a senator with a lot of influence.

  ‘And what crime did my mother commit?’ she continued, ignoring him. ‘Her father gambles away his wage, leaving the family destitute. Then along comes your father, taken with her, but unable to marry the daughter of a lowly teacher. So what does he do? Buys her. Not only does she become a slave by definition, she is also labelled a—’

  ‘Save your breath. I know the story.’

  She exhaled to calm herself. ‘I am surprised that you cannot understand me wanting a different life. At least you can marry, have children—’

  ‘Slaves have children all the time.’

  If they had been alone, she might have tripped him. ‘Children who are the property of their dominus, not their mother.’

  He would not look at her.

  She did not stop. ‘If your father was to sell me, what would be my worth?’

  Nerva picked up his pace, forcing her to do the same. Her legs ached from all the fighting.

  ‘Five hundred denarii at the most, due to your laziness.’

  ‘Nerva!’

  He inhaled. ‘All right, all right. Two thousand at a minimum.’

  A mule came towards them. They moved into a doorway to get out of its way, and Nerva turned to her. ‘If it were up to me, I would free you. If only to put an end to your complaining,’ he added, stepping back into the alleyway and rounding the corner onto a wide street. ‘Fighting boys on the street is one thing, but fighting in an arena in front of men is quite another.’

  ‘Your slave, your rules,’ Mila said, quoting Gallus.

  ‘Exactly. It is time you listened before you find yourself in over your head, or worse, dead.’

  ‘They use wooden swords,’ she replied, keeping her voice low. ‘I am not fighting to the death.’

  The house came into sight and Nerva stopped walking, taking hold of her arm. ‘Mila, you are my…’

  He could not say it. Sister.

  ‘We have known one another our whole lives,’ she finished for him.

  He let go of her arm. ‘Stay away from people like Gallus. He only wants to exploit you, not free you. Understand?’

  She stared at him a moment before nodding.

  Looking to the house, he said, ‘If anyone asks, I had some business to tend to and asked you to keep me company.’

  Another nod.

  His eyes returned to her. ‘Fix your hair and pray that shine on your cheek does not turn to bruising in the morning.’

  Chapter 2

  Mila was about to climb the wall when she heard Dulcia call to her in the dark.

  ‘Please don’t go.’


  Mila turned, searching for her sister. She found her hiding in the shadows. ‘Return to Mother. Quickly now.’ She tried to keep her voice to a whisper.

  Dulcia’s gaze fell to the weapons hanging from her hips. ‘Why are you taking your swords? You promised Mother you would stop fighting.’

  ‘I promised Mother I wouldn’t cause trouble for us, which means not getting caught fighting. If I stand here talking to you, we are both going to end up in trouble.’ She watched as her sister sank deeper into the shadows. She kept praying that Dulcia would gain confidence, toughen up, but at age twelve, when other girls were being promised to greying men, her sister continued to hide away with the dolls Nerva bought her each year on her birthday.

  ‘You’re going to the arena. The one I heard you talking to Nerva about.’ She looked suitably guilty for eavesdropping. ‘You promised him you wouldn’t go.’

  Mila exhaled and walked over to her sister, looking around the garden before stepping into the shadows beside her. ‘They need people to entertain the crowd, lighten the mood. It is not dangerous, only fun. I have a chance to earn some real coin.’

  ‘You win coin all the time.’

  Mila glanced at the wall. Soon it would be too late to go. ‘Yes, fighting boys on the street for a few sestertii. Where I am going, winners are paid denarii.’