In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal by Nasia Maksima Read Free Book Online

spared the burning of the house.
    And now here he was, watching the Spectacle. For some reason, Stratos wanted him to see it. To see Hektor Actaeon.
    Stratos beckoned, and Lucan returned to the side that faced the Empress’s Grand Theatre. Stratos laid his fingers on the rail of the balcony and leaned over, as though his own spyglass did not afford him a close enough look at Hektor Actaeon. His desire was evident in the tension of his jaw, the way he licked his lips. To Lucan, it felt an old desire, though, blunted and bitter. He shifted uncomfortably, and his earlier fear rose.
    He hoped the quaestor didn’t turn to him for comfort.
    “I heard Hektor Actaeon made his name within his first three bouts,” Lucan said for the sake of saying something. It was true, and everyone knew it. Hektor Actaeon had been called Black Spear for only two fights before the Empress acknowledged him and allowed his name to be spoken in her theatre.
    Lucan cleared his throat. He sounded like one of the amatores who trolled the Gates of Life in the hopes a gladiator would look her way.
    But Stratos only laughed darkly and gestured around House Vulpinius’s private balcony, its purple awning and curtains providing ample shade. “Make yourself comfortable.” He indicated a table laden with bread and cheeses, dates, and a few rare apples. “Enjoy.”
    Lucan looked back at the Spectacle below. The delicacies were enticing, but he’d never seen the Melee from this angle, and he’d only heard rumors of Hektor Actaeon, primus palus and favored of the Empress. It was said she only put his prowess on display when she was in one of her fouler moods. Truth be told, it was the hottest day yet of the sun’s turn. Even the awnings and curtains could not keep the balconies entirely cool, the wave of heat carried on the very wind.
    Perhaps the rumors were true, that even the weather bowed to the mighty Empress.
    Lucan barely bothered with rumor and conjecture about the Empress herself. He had been a slave his entire life, and now, even as a novice gladiator he was so far beneath her as to be unworthy of notice. The best he could hope for was to wear the laurels before he died. And perhaps enjoy the odd bit of fancy here and there. He glanced back at the table. The bloodthirsty screams in the Theatre ramped up to a roar.
    “To the sky! To the sky!”
    Lucan forgot the lure of the table.
    “Come.” Stratos took his arm in a brotherly fashion. “He won’t yet kill his opponent. He’ll preen and prance about, draw the crowd to further frenzy. All that blood and lust is why she likes him.”
    The last was said with bitterness. Lucan dared a glance at the quaestor’s face, but Stratos only smiled winningly. Below, Hektor Actaeon had dashed his final opponent—a myrmidon in a lion’s-head helm—to the ground, and now strutted about, displaying his arms to the delight of the crowd. On high, the Empress paused while the crowd held its collective breath.
    Stratos’s lip curled as he regarded the feminine figure in white. “You may as well eat. She could stand there for hours.”
    Lucan reminded himself that he was this man’s slave now. Obediently, he tore his gaze away from the sight below. Setting the spyglass carefully on the table, he delved into the delicacies. The nutty burst of dates on his tongue was pure pleasure. He gobbled a handful and sampled the cheese. He found the harder bread not to his liking, but dipping it in a cup of summer-wine softened it. He tried to eat fast despite the heady taste, and cautioned himself not to gorge.
    The screams and shouts of the crowd rose impossibly higher. The Empress had stepped closer to the edge of her balcony, her left arm outstretched. She was about to make her decision. Leaving off with the food, Lucan hastened back to the rail. Stratos came with him, a look of practiced interest on his face.
    At the Theatre’s center, Hektor Actaeon stood over his fallen foe, bloodied and battered, all his corded