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Corinth could not compare to Rome in color, size, or stature. Where Rome was covered in rich paints and bold fabrics and gold leaf, Corinth’s drab tones smacked more of a prison. Although a sizeable city, Corinth could not measure up to the miles and miles of roads that crossed the seven great hills of Rome. Even the people seemed smaller somehow, hunched and beaten down, if not broken. Rome was the heart of the Roman Empire. Corinth was the head of Greece, all strategy and no patience for anything else. Caesar captured Rome; they shared little in common, like spouses in a forced marriage. The Conqueror consumed Corinth. The Conqueror was Corinth.
Spontaneous cheers rose up from the citizenry as the procession passed. “Hail the Conqueror!” “Ares grant us victory!” “The Destroyer has returned!” The slave stared at faces as they passed, saw fear, hatred, euphoria, and hysteria in their eyes. At the Conqueror. At the soldiers. At her.
Something hard bounced off her armor. “Death to the enemies of Greece!” Another stone sailed in; she ducked it, only to be struck by another on the ear. “Death to the Romans!” Rocks and vegetables and coins flew in, stinging legs, arms, face. She resisted the urge to throw back, settled for her best snarl.
Something caught her in the back of the head, dropped her to her knees. Hands strained against the irons to reach back, felt warm wetness in her hair before the chain snapped tight, wrenched her onto her elbows, dragged her along. She clambered up, lurched ahead blindly, squinting down a dark tunnel until she could get her bearings. Scraped knees and elbows proved especially sensitive targets for the mob’s missiles. She hunched her shoulders against the barrage, her hands shielding her face what little the chains would allow.
She decided she didn’t care much for the hospitality of Corinth.
The procession reached a large town square in front of the gates of a massive fortress. The sedan-bearers mounted steps to the side of the main gates, lowering the chair onto a platform that overlooked the common area. Reluctantly the gladiator mounted the steps behind her owner, did her best to stand very still and become invisible.
The Conqueror rose. When the assembly finally quieted down, the absoluteness of it deafened.
“Our journey to Rome is a great victory for Greece and her people. Caesar welcomes peace with mighty Corinth. He wishes to establish trade routes over land and sea which will bring good fortune and prosperity to all the lands under Greece’s rule. Furthermore, Caesar has agreed to withdraw his troops from Illyria, opening trade and expansion all the way to the northern sea!”
Cheers erupted from the crowd, harsh and forced.
Xena waited until the noise calmed. “And I have claimed another prize for Greece. Caesar issued a challenge, one of Rome’s favorite gladiators, the Leopard, against your Conqueror. Now Rome’s prize is mine.”
The chain jerked and twisted; caught off guard, she fell to scraped knees and elbows, the roar of approval hardly penetrating her senses. A boot pressed her cheek to the platform. Not hard, but enough to make a point.
“Crucify her!” Others in the crowd took up the cry. Alarmed, the slave looked up at her owner, saw that terrifying grin again.
“Crucify her? Crucifying is too good for this whore of Rome. She will live out the rest of her days under my heel, her skills serving Greece as I see fit. Just as Rome herself will someday.”
More strident cheers. Only after many long seconds did the pressure let up; she struggled to her feet, glowered uneasily at the Conqueror’s back. If the crowd booed her before, they despised her now. Romans had hated the Leopard too, but in the arena, the crowd was little more than a squirming jeering mass of flesh. Faceless. Removed. Insignificant. Not like this, just out of reach of a frenzied mob howling for her blood.
Relief flooded through her when the bearers lifted the sedan to leave, turned sour at the narrow path the soldiers cleared through the throng. People pressed much closer this time, close enough to spit at her, swipe at her with fists and claws. She avoided some only to be snared by others, barely managed to keep her feet as fingers tugged on her armor, ripped her tunic, dug into her flesh. She kicked at one that wouldn’t let go of her shoulder guard, found her leg caught and pulled. She elbowed that one away, but others surged in his place, hands grabbing, knotting in her hair, pummeling her head. Already lightheaded, she stumbled and fell, kicked wildly as they grabbed her legs and hauled her off the ground, pulling against the collar. Frantically she thrashed, clutching at the chain, desperate to loosen the metal noose around her neck. A rushing filled her ears as more and more hands latched on to elbows and feet, intent on tearing her limb from limb.
The hands let go, heads cracking as one of the royal guard stepped in, beat them off with the pommel of his sword. Strong arms hauled her to her feet, the soldier shielding her from the hateful crowd until they entered the palace.
When they were safe inside the gate and beyond sight of the horde, trembling knees gave out and she vomited water and rancid broth across the paving stones. Again, more of the same and viscous bile. And again and again, reflexive heaves until she thought her intestines would come up through her nose. Strong gentle hands supported her when her elbows gave, let her work solely on cleansing her system of fear.
Though she stared at the palace guard intently, the Conqueror barely heard a word he said, all attention focused on the retching slave silhouetted in the dim corridor. She’d heard the jeers of the crowd, felt the tugging on the chain, knew they went for her. As she trained her eyes on the poor man before her, she wondered how close they came, how badly they’d hurt her—
“—are waiting to see the Conqueror in the great hall.”
“What? No. Absolutely not. Tell them to come back tomorrow.”
“Yes, Conqueror, I understand. But they say the flood washed away their homes, devastated their food stores. The survivors are starving and need provisions immediately. If wagons left now, the food would arrive in two days.”
“How much food?”
He blinked. “I’m not sure, Conqueror.”
She frowned, watched a scarred soldier approach. Though not a large man, he carried in his arms the limp gladiator, her pale face buried in his shoulder. An eyebrow floated into her hairline. “Put her in my room. And fetch my herbalist. And have the kitchen send up some food.”
He nodded. She watched him until he was out of sight, reluctantly turned back to the waiting guard. “Let’s go. This better be quick.”
It was not. The flooded village got several wagons of provisions in exchange for sending healthy young men to serve in the army. Surely they expected no less for her benevolence. But a messenger from Persia intercepted her, requesting more troops to hold back the Horde, followed by a messenger from Egypt announcing its wish to renegotiate the terms of their ‘alliance.’ To both she said the same thing. Come back tomorrow, or you will not like my response.
As she left the great hall, Bellerophon fell in step behind her. “Cleopatra is no fool. She wouldn’t risk your wrath without leverage.” His voice hummed around the bloated nose.
Xena shook her head, too worn out to care. “See what you can find out.”
Bellerophon bowed, left her side.
She navigated the corridors by rote, her legs heavy. The scar-faced guard waited for her outside the heavy plain door, saluted as she approached. “Conqueror, your slave and servant are inside. The herbalist is tending to them, and food is waiting for you.”
She acknowledged, already pushing past him. A thought struck her. “Did they hurt her?”
“Conqueror?”
“Those animals in the crowd. Did any lay a hand on her?”
“Plenty, I’d say. They’re stirred up about your trip, would love to give any Roman what’s coming to them. But I don’t think she’s hurt, really. Mostly shook up.”
She nodded absently, reliving another mob, a gauntlet of sneering faces. The woman who would become Conqueror learned a pivotal if unpleasant lesson that day: mercy doesn’t impress an army. It had taken a long time to put that experience behind her. One rarely survives a mob unscathed. “Well…thank you.” She cringed, slapped by words and sentiment very unlike the Conqueror, cleared her throat to cover it. “Joxer, isn’t it?”
He responded with a sober jerk of the chin. “You saved my life at Athens.”
She didn’t remember that. She did remember a far more recent skirmish, cleaving her way through a pack of Roman dogs trying to take over her ship. Running one man through, her blade binding in his spine. Several swords and spears coming at her, forcing her to jump back or be skewered. His lunge into attacks meant for her, driving them back while she rearmed herself. Neither of them spoke of it, then or now.
She gave his armor a once-over. “How long have you been a Dragon?”
The nasty scar from forehead to jawline seemed to render his face incapable of cracking a smile. “Almost a year, Conqueror.”
He didn’t act green, didn’t try to curry her to favor. He’d served at Athens, must have been regular army for some time. “Well, you impressed me today. The Leopard doesn’t let just anyone touch her.”
His face twitched at the rare compliment. “Thank you, Conqueror.”
She dismissed him, entered her chambers. A small entryway lay just beyond the main door, a lead-in to more double doors and the enormous suite beyond. The previous rulers of Corinth apparently needed a lot of room to engage in their private affairs. The Destroyer of Nations did not, filled the space inadequately. A gigantic bed dominated the center of the main chamber, decorated in exquisite pillows, blankets, and sheets from Egypt, India, Chin, and Japa. Beyond the bed a small fire danced in the hearth. On one side a desk and chair faced a narrow window. On the other side clothes occupied one antechamber; another housed a sumptuous bath. The main chamber remained generally empty save for a few personal items collected in her conquests. Sounds echoed unpleasantly around the room, only slightly muted by fine oriental rugs and rare animal pelts covering the floor.
In stark contrast to the void of the bed chamber, the entry alcove bustled with activity. On a hastily arranged cot lay her personal servant, his breathing thin and strained as an old man removed gold and silver and bronze needles from his skin. Niklos’ pinched brown eyes searched for her, too terrified to move. Pained, she hung back in the corner of the entry, out of the way while the herbalist finished.
He put his medicines away, spoke to her alone in the language of Chin. “The blade has disrupted his chi; his chest does not expand properly. He may not recover, but…his energies seem favorable. I can give him a drink to ease the pain and help him sleep. He needs strict bed rest, no duties.”
She nodded, allowed herself the indulgence of squeezing Niklos’ hand. She smoothed his bangs, forced herself to smile at the uncomprehending young man as if everything were fine.
The shriveled herbalist turned on her, said in thickly-accented Greek, “Now examine you.”
She impatiently shrugged off his hand. “I’m fine—”
“You always argue. Let old man do what you spare his life to do.” He took his bag of herbs and tinctures to the bed, sat down and waited for her to join him.
She worked at the buttons of the oriental gown. “Stop fussing, you quack. I’m fine. See? Demetrius did an excellent job patching me up.”
He chuckled humorlessly. “Demetrius take no credit for this. This remarkable healing and stubbornness.” He removed the dressing, cursed the healer’s parentage. “Barbarians. Always you cut each other open, call it medicine.”
He prepared a poultice and a tea while she removed the dress and headpiece, retrieved a soft worn robe. Neither pretty nor new, it comforted her like an old blanket or favorite pair of boots.
She stepped out of the antechamber, spotted the fair figure curled on her side below the window. “What about her?”
“Her? She would not—”
“—let you touch her,” she finished, hardly surprised. She drank his bitter potion, pressed the hot poultice to her neck as she crossed to stand before the Leopard. In the darker edges of the chamber a thin ray of sunlight weakly illuminated her face, drew out numerous cuts and scrapes, the waxy complexion, the dull sage eyes, the heavy iron collar and manacles. At her approach the slave pressed herself up to her knees, head down.
This disturbed her more than any gushing wound. She crouched down before the woman, lifted her face. “You alright?”
Woodenly the gladiator nodded. Some shadow lingered in her eyes though, some wound unseen. The Conqueror removed the manacles from her neck and wrists, unwrapped her hand and held it up in the sunlight for the herbalist’s inspection.
His pruned face squinted, sighed at the half-healed mess, the swelling, the pink tendrils creeping up her wrist. “She will have fever tomorrow. Give her yellow flower medicine, will realign her chi.” He took her arm in his skeletal hands, pressed sharp fingers deep into her forearm and shoulder. She gasped, glared at him in an almost comical look of surprise if not for the alarm growing in her eyes. Xena concealed a tiny smile, remembering that shock of discomfort wrapped in a promise of pain. The wild thing tried to pull away; the Conqueror held her arm still with firm hands. Reflexively the Leopard’s other hand formed a fist; the warrior caught it before it connected with the old man’s face, whispered, “Breathe.”
They stayed like that, a tangled knot of arms and hands, the Leopard trembling, drawing ragged breaths.
His grip relaxed. She sagged, panting, cradled the arm to her as if broken.
“Will heal faster. She need food, water. When last time you feed her?”
“I’ll take care of it.” She flexed the gladiator’s arm and shoulder, not unlike when she relocated it. Gods, their first meeting face to face, a lifetime of excitement ago. Xena smiled. The Leopard would certainly make for stimulating company.
The old man pressed a steaming cup into the slave’s hand. “Drink it,” the Conqueror commanded, before the slave could even make a gesture of refusal. “It tastes like dung, trust me, but it will keep you from losing the hand.”
She eyed the Conqueror, the herbalist dubiously. The contents of the cup went down in one gulp; the grimace took longer to fade.
The warrior grinned. “Welcome to my life.”
A knock at the door. “Come,” she called out.
A portly man bustled in, bowed deeply. “Conqueror. Is everything to your liking?”
She stood, moved to intercept him. “I haven’t tried the food yet.”
“And you sent for the herbalist—” He gasped. “Niklos! My dulcet dove, what have those Roman pigs done to you?”
“He’s recovering, Vidalis. Let him rest. How is the palace?”
He resisted the urge to go to the young man, clasped his manicured fingers. “Fine, Mistress. No troubles to report.” He spied the gown and crown on the floor near the antechamber and snatched them up, flitted around the chamber, tidying her mess. “Did your wardrobe have the desired effect, Conqueror?”
“Caesar noticed if that’s what you mean. So did most of the male inhabitants of Rome.”
“Stellar. I shall have all your dresses cleaned—oh my.”
In his sweep around the room he stumbled upon her in the patch of sunlight. Eyes stalked him the moment he entered until he came too close and she crouched, ready.
“Vidalis, this is my newest slave…” What name had she given? Gabrielle? Immediately she discarded it. Far too soft and banal for the gladiator poised to punch her headservant’s teeth in. “Parda, the Leopard of Rome.”
He thoroughly inspected her from head to toe, his narrowed gaze speaking volumes. “Goodness, Mistress. Did you buy her or defeat her?”
“Both. I’ll need another cot sent up.”
“Really? There is plenty of room in the slave’s quarters for one more uncouth—” He glanced at the Conqueror’s hard face. ”Of course, this space is far too empty. Another cot would certainly liven up the place.”
She took his elbow and led him away, dropping her voice. “She’ll need some plain tunics, something in the Roman style to make her feel at home. I trust your judgment, of course.”
The man pursed his lips, sizing her up. “I’ll have to get that armor off, get some measurements.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “Not gonna happen. You’ll just have to give it your best guess and we’ll go from there.”
He sighed. “Can I do anything else for you, Mistress?”
“She can attend to my needs while Niklos recovers. What you do already is plenty.”
He beamed and bowed dramatically, backing out of the room and closing the doors behind him.
The herbalist rolled his eyes, fed more of his crushed leaves to Niklos.
“You too, old man.”
He slipped back into the melodic tongue of Chin. “As you wish. These are for his pain. They work best on an empty stomach. He can eat them now, but he should take some again in the afternoon, and again when it is dark.” He did not take long to gather his medicines and leave.
Finally she stood alone in her chambers, safe from the outside world. The quiet wrapped around her like a blanket. She closed her eyes, released the iron grip she held on her spine.
The gladiator caught her arm before she realized she’d tilted, guided her to the bed. She lay there, eyes closed, listening to clanking pottery and silver until a hand on her shoulder encouraged her to sit up. The gladiator held out a goblet of wine, willed her to drink it.
“You first. Part of your new duties.”
The woman frowned, confused. The Conqueror offered a wan smile. “It’s probably fine. No one’s tried to poison me in months.”
Doubts flitted across the slave’s features. Steeling herself, she closed her eyes, took one slow sip. A long moment passed, as if she waited for a snake to bite her on the tongue. She forced herself to swallow, waited again for her body to signal distress. Nothing. Her shoulders relaxed. Clear eyes offered the cup again.
The warrior took it, downed it in one gulp, gestured to the plate of food between them. One by one her new slave sampled the bread, cheeses, fruits and vegetables, lamb and duck. She had the look of one going to an execution, not a proper death for a gladiator. It left a sour taste in the Conqueror’s mouth.
They ate quietly, neither feeling much enthusiasm for the meal. Xena found herself staring at the young face. Eight, maybe ten winters separated them, though the Conqueror couldn’t be sure. In a fight, in pain, in anger, in trouble, her face formed a mask as ageless and impenetrable as stone.
She knew that mask. She acquired hers when the warlord Cortese invaded her village so many years ago, molded it into form over her brother’s dead body, made it a part of her daily life after her mother disowned her. But she owed the final polish to an arrogant Roman noble named Caesar who promised her love and power. The same man who betrayed her, left her and her crew crucified on a beach as a lesson to those who might mistake him for a pawn and not a player.
The Leopard’s mask was a cold, distant thing. But sometimes, like now, it slipped. Hard years fell away from her, left a softness, a hollow ache that made the Conqueror uncomfortable. She looked away, pretended not to see. “I need a bath. Come.”
She led the slave to the side chamber, relieved to find the tub filled in anticipation of her return. She dropped the old robe as she stepped in, pinning her hair up and settling into water up to her collarbones with a sigh. She closed her eyes and soaked for a few minutes, letting the journey’s filth dissolve in the heat. Could have fallen asleep in an instant if not for the stranger watching her. She sighed and took up a sponge, hadn’t the energy to scrub but at least wiped almost every inch of skin.
Her back prickled. She turned to see hooded eyes staring at the water like a beggar at a feast. A hand gestured for her to come closer, handed her the sponge. “Wash my back.”
For the second time that day, the slave bathed her mistress. The first bath was hesitant, embarrassed. This time her movements were coarse and hurried.
She lay a hand on the sponge, held it still. “Gentle. Like this.” She moved the slave’s hand in lazy circles on her shoulder, the pressure firm but not rough. Gradually carefulness crept into the touch, calloused hands relearning how to wash rather than scour, soothe rather than hurt.
Back, arms, and legs clean, she rested her head back against the edge of the tub as the sponge gently scrubbed her chest, her stomach, her breasts. Pleasant sensations, if not particularly erotic. She felt the sponge dip lower and hesitate, opened her eyes. The slave stared hard below the surface of the water, moisture beading on her brow. Without a word she pried the sponge from frozen fingers.
“I’m done. Get those off.”
The Conqueror stepped out of the bath, toweled herself dry and drew the robe over her shoulders, watched the gladiator surreptitiously. Armor and boots came off slowly but without a fight. The Conqueror smiled, thinking of that night in the cabin as they set sail from Rome. What a difference three days made.
“The tunic, too. All of it.”
That brought a spark of will back.
She sighed. “For the bath.”
Those pale green eyes held hers as she obeyed. They spoke of trust, if guarded. And they did a fair job of keeping her eyes from wandering elsewhere. The Conqueror forced herself to step back, taking in the sight before her.
Even standing tense and ready, she looked wrecked. Beneath the caked sweat and leopard spots and dirt and blood and scars, bumps and bruises purpled nicely on her face and neck and torso, complimented the outright flaying of her hand, the puckered stitches of her arm and leg. While the injuries looked bad, she dismissed them as known concerns, noted instead the freshly skinned knees and elbows, shallow fingernail scratches, blood matted in the thick shock of white-gold hair.
She eyed the scratches and cuts, tender tokens of affection from her subjects, and felt the barest twinge of guilt. She’d intended to use the Leopard as a symbol, an effigy of Rome to rile the masses. She hadn’t meant for the mob to get so close. Not that she would ever admit events hadn’t gone exactly as planned. She’d become the Conqueror by being all-knowing, being able to predict her enemies’ every move. Reputation as much as anything kept the circling jackals at bay.
Fingers brushed the long scratches on the muscular bicep as if tracking sign in the woods, trying to read the actions behind them, glean some information about the perpetrator. Dark fantasies of finding the assailant and returning the injury ten-fold danced through her mind. This was her flesh to break. No one else’s.
“Get in,” she husked.
The slave looked hesitantly at the bath, at her.
“Get in. You need it.”
She stepped into the warm water, hunched and set to scrubbing quickly, no doubt used to bathing with little water, less time, and no privacy.
She shook her head. “Stop. Stand up.” Taking the sponge, she began to wipe the grime from strong legs with slow measured strokes. “I thought you Romans were supposed to be obsessed with your baths.”
The slave watched her every move. “Not Roman.”
Her words dropped like coins on impoverished ears. The Conqueror hid her smile. She’d already guessed as much; the slave spoke perfect Greek when she spoke at all. And judging by the tightness of the quiet voice, she objected to the association with her former owners.
“No? Then where are you from?”
Another hesitation. “Poteidaia.”
She faltered, covered by rinsing out the sponge. “When did you leave?”
“Before your army came.”
So she knew the fate of the village. More importantly, she knew who the Conqueror was, perhaps bore a grudge. Danger tickled her spine.
“Why’d you leave then?”
“Stupidity.” The word trickled like bile, hot and sharp, upon her skin. “Choices of a foolish girl.”
She couldn’t imagine the cautious woman ever being foolish. “How did you end up in Rome?”
“Got caught in your war.”
Her war. The war with Caesar. Long and violent, both empires still licked their wounds.
Lost in her thoughts, she almost didn’t notice the body harden under her touch. Was it the tenderness of her bruised belly that triggered the change, or the nearness to her sex? She’d guessed correctly about the rape, doubted it was a one-time event. She kept her movements gentle and predictable as the sponge worked upwards, her impassive gaze locked on green irises, away from the curves and mounds she bathed. She made a point of lowering her arms, making sure the woman knew she was through.
“Alright?” At the gladiator’s barest nod, she gestured to the water. “Sit.”
The Leopard lowered herself in by inches, pausing as hot water brought fresh sting to each cut. Finally she took a breath, dipped beneath the surface. A dark cloud bloomed where she rubbed the back of her head; as she surfaced ruby water trickled down the nape of her neck. The warrior tilted her head forward, peeled the short thick hair aside until she found the ugly gash. “It’s not bad. The bleeding’s almost stopped.” She put a cloth against it, lay the head back against the tub as she rose to retrieve a vial from the table nearby.
“I thought slaves bathed their owners.”
She glared at the woman, ready with a sharp reprimand for such cheek, found wary eyes tracking her movements. Why would an owner bathe her slave personally, unless the bathing was a means to something more…intimate?
She shook her head, dribbled scented Egyptian oil into the water. “Consider this an education on how I want it done.” Sitting on the edge of the marble tub, she took one of the Leopard’s arms in hers and firmly rubbed sponge and hands from shoulder to fingertips, half-cleaning, half-massaging the knotted limb.
Gradually the gladiator relaxed, part exhaustion, part coaxing from steady hands on muscles and joints stiff with apprehension and abuse. Her eyes wandered away, stared off into the dark corners of the antechamber, looking like they might droop toward sleep.
She fought it, spoke instead. “I was in Scupi when the Romans came. The townspeople arrested me, turned me over to the Roman commander as one of your spies.”
“You? Why?”
“I told…lies.”
“Lies?”
“Stories. About the gods. About you. Lies. Doesn’t matter. They thought the Romans might take mercy on them for their show of loyalty. They were wrong. But the commander kept me, called me…amusing.”
“For your stories?” Roman officers usually weren’t interested in young women just to hear them talk. Then again, none of this sounded like the history of an accomplished gladiator who spoke to her mistress only sparingly, and to no one else for gods knew how long before that.
The narrative hung like that, words caught in the slave’s throat, lost somewhere in a memory never shared. The warrior took her other arm in hand, kneading sore muscles, careful of the long stitched gashes left by the lion so many lifetimes ago.
When she spoke again, the Leopard’s voice sounded even more distant. “He let me speak my mind, so long as I counseled him truthfully. I thought he was a good man, tried to help him see it, too. Then…his commander propositioned me. I refused, so he went to my officer, told him I used my stories to spread sedition among the slaves and urge them to revolt.”
“Did you?”
The slave’s lips drew into a thin line. “His slaves swore I did. I had two choices. I could say I hadn’t, basically accuse a general of Rome of lying and be branded a liar myself. Or I could say I had, and sentence myself to death.”
“So you said nothing.” The Conqueror pulled one of her feet out of the water, worked it gently to smooth away some tension, keep her talking.
“They tried to force a confession out of me. Every word I spoke in my defense the general twisted into a plot to undermine Rome, until I said nothing at all. It didn’t matter. When we reached Rome, my officer sent me to the auction block.”
She set to work on the other foot. “At least you got away from the general.”
The gladiator shook her head. “The general is the one who bought me and sent me to the arena.”
A soft knock drifted in from the main chamber, interrupting her. “Come, Vidalis! Let’s have a look at those tunics—” She glanced up. Captain Bellerophon stood in the doorway, his mouth slack. The foot pulled from her grasp, retreated under the water. She reined in her irritation. “What’s the reason for this interruption, Captain?”
“Conqueror, I have—I thought you wished to—” He cleared his throat. “Conqueror. May I speak to you in private?”
Water splashed from the tub; the slave stood, eyes down, quick to step out. “Stay,” she commanded. She was of a mind to tell the captain to come back later, but thoughts of Egyptian rebellion crept in. She tossed a towel to the slave, followed him all the way out the chamber door and into the hallway.
“General Pileus sends word from Egypt. While we were in Rome, a legion landed in Alexandria to reinforce Cleopatra’s troops. He fears she may now have enough forces to overcome the Third Army.”
“Or Caesar may be stirring her up to distract us from his movements on our northern border.”
“Either way, a disruption in tribute from Egypt would prove more than a distraction.”
“Perhaps.” A dozen scenarios worked through her head. “I want to speak to the messenger first thing in the morning. And make sure he is well rested so he can return to Egypt as soon as we’re done. Dismissed.”
She moved to return to her chambers, noted the captain lingered. Her eyes narrowed. “Is there something else, Captain?”
“If I may speak freely, Conqueror, your newest slave—”
She gestured to his swollen face. “This better not be about your clumsiness.”
He cleared his throat, tried to sound less nasal. “She lied to you, misidentified the assassin, could be working in collusion—”
“Because it looks to me like you got your nose laid over by a woman half your size and are trying to cover your incompetence.”
A vein rose across his forehead. “My men and I were following your orders—”
She smirked. “Yes, right up to the moment you ordered your men to kill her.”
He set his jaw. “Forgive me, Conqueror. She disobeyed your orders, attacked us when we tried to put her in chains. I had to ensure the safety of my men.”
She got in his face. “Let me make this absolutely clear, Captain. You don’t have the authority to order the death of one of my slaves. In fact, you don’t have the authority to do anything to my slaves. Ever.”
She turned away, conversation over.
“You seem awfully attached to this week’s toy, Conqueror. I must say I find her control over you disturbing.”
She slammed him back against a wall, her forearm pressed into his throat. “Do you have a death wish?”
“Forgiveness,” he squawked. “I know the Destroyer of Nations would not go soft over a girl, so I can only believe some sort of plot is at work. Hers. Or perhaps Caesar’s.”
She shoved him harder. “Speak plainly.”
“Before we left Rome I asked around. Gracchus was not her original owner. Before that she was a spoil of war.”
“I know all this,” she growled, her forearm grinding into his windpipe.
“The Leopard belonged to Caesar,” he squeaked. “Her loyalties lie with Caesar.”
She searched his face, looking for deception. Found none. She let up on his throat, her lips twisted in a snarl. “You know nothing about her loyalties.”
Each breath whistled with effort. “He wanted you to meet her. After seeing your interest, he must have pulled strings to have her fight two days in a row, something unheard of in the arena. He arranged the private fights through Gracchus. Perhaps he planned to offer her as a gift, get her close to you so she could earn your confidence—”
“And then kill me? She could have tried many times by now.”
“Kill you. Spy on you. Undermine you.”
She dropped him. She wanted to hit him, settled for the wall instead. He pulled himself upright, gasping and rubbing his neck.
“I just ask that you be careful. Caesar knows you, knows how to get under your skin. That slave is definitely under your skin. Please, Conqueror.”
She barely heard him. Did Caesar arrange to have the Leopard fight in the arena, knowing she would fascinate the Conqueror? Were the legionnaires who attacked the ship sent by Gracchus to reclaim his prize, or by Caesar to contact his slave with orders to kill her new mistress? Did the gladiator make a mistake or deliberately accuse the wrong man of plotting to assassinate her? None of it fit together but parts had the stink of that pompous bastard all over it.
Her gut told her Bellerophon was wrong, yet she couldn’t deny his logic. The gladiator was a danger. She’d already proven she could get a deadly strike through the warrior’s defenses. And she’d surely lost family when the Conqueror’s army razed her village. And no one knew better than Xena how Caesar could twist a person’s mind when he wanted something. Only a fool would ignore such a threat.
She sighed. “What would you suggest?”
“Send her to the slaves’ quarters. Or post guards in your chambers. Or at least keep her chained for your own safety. I cannot protect you if you won’t protect yourself.”
She turned away, paused with her hand on the latch. “Send for Joxer,” she murmured before stepping back inside.
Niklos dozed, well under the sleeping draught’s magic. Nevertheless, she carefully shut the doors to the main chamber.
The slave approached hesitantly, wearing the torn Roman tunic once more. Her eyes searched the Conqueror’s, questions lurking in their shadowed depths.
“Who was this general who bought you?”
The question startled the slave. Her mouth opened a few times before she managed an answer. “A nobleman accomplished in the arts of war—”
She grabbed the woman by the neck, ignored the strong hands that clamped around her forearm. “Don’t play games with me. Did you lie to your old commander?”
“Never.”
“Did you ever withhold the truth from him?”
The jaw clamped shut, refused to answer.
The Conqueror growled, gave the slave a rough shake. “You listen to me, girl. You can play your silence games with anyone else you want, but I know you have a tongue. When I ask a question, you will answer me, and you will answer truthfully. What general bought you and sent you to the arena?”
The woman struggled, gave in reluctantly. “Gaius Julius—”
“—Caesar,” she hissed. Her fingers dug deeper into the corded throat. “How long did you serve him?”
“Two, maybe three summers.”
“In what capacity?”
Heat flushed the young face. “As his gladiator.”
“Is that all?”
The gladiator’s hesitation gave her away.
“I see. How else did you serve him?”
She gritted her teeth. “You already know.”
“Say it.”
“Why?” Her quiet voice trembled.
“I’m curious. How often did you grace his bed? Were you an amusement? Or a co-conspirator? Did you like what he did to you?”
The gladiator snarled, grabbed the dark triangle of the warrior’s sex half-hidden under the robe. “Did you?”
The rage in her eyes, the heat of her grab stole the Conqueror’s breath away. She stood there, torn between killing the gladiator where she stood and finishing what the hand between her thighs started.
Color drained from the gladiator’s face as she realized what she’d done. She swallowed hard, unsure and still.
A knock on the door made them both jump, break contact. The Conqueror pulled the robe closed. “Enter.”
The scarred guard stepped in, bowed formally. “You sent for me?”
The Conqueror still felt the flush of heat in her cheeks, turned away before the guard noticed it. “Escort the Leopard to the slave’s quarters. Tell the foreman she is not to be assigned duties, merely a cot to sleep on and a clean tunic. I will send for her when I require her services.” She retrieved from the floor the collar, manacles, and chain, held them up to the gladiator. “To restrain you or not? In my palace, slaves are merely collared; only prisoners are shackled. Which are you?”
She didn’t expect the woman to answer in front of an audience. After long moments of consideration, she locked the collar into place, snapped the manacles on her wrists. “Behave yourself and perhaps I’ll change my mind.”
Thirsty.
More than once she awoke in a dim room, dragged from the depths of strange dreams by chill air across her skin, a heat underneath that turned her tongue to swollen sandpaper. Sometimes she could tell she was ill, but those moments of lucidity wove seamlessly with memory and illusion. The room offered no windows or doors to the outside. Upon each waking she couldn’t tell whether it was day or night, could only sense the rhythms of activity when she was aware enough to care.
Time passed by unchecked, and what little she remembered bled together with her fevered imagination. The guard who often came to her bedside metamorphosed into a giant menacing gladiator, his face hidden behind a scarred Greek tragedy mask, whereupon they dueled for Rome’s favor. A boy who came in to drain the chamber pot transformed into Caesar, resplendent in fine white and gold robes. With a gesture he commanded the cots to rise, reshaping themselves into guards to hold her down while he cut out her tongue. The withered healer with the foul drink and fingers like spikes jabbed her in the neck, let her lie there stiff and panicked while he—now she, having turned into the Conqueror—bent low and whispered tender reassurances that such tortures were for the good of Greece. Disembodied hands drifted across fiery skin, released one heat trapped underneath with cool relief, ignited another kind of heat more difficult to extinguish. Bright blue eyes held hers as fingertips brushed sweat-soaked hair off of her forehead, stroked her cheek. She couldn’t even lift her arms in response, but the kind touch was shade from blazing summer sun; she pressed her face into the relief of the cool hand, forced the only word she could think of—Xena—past a thick and contrary tongue. But the woman who recoiled from her had yellow hair, not black. Then she too passed away into heated darkness.
She woke drenched in sweat, drained but alert. Her body ached, but it was not in her nature to lie still. With effort she swung her legs off the cot, steadied herself, peered around. She didn’t recognize the long room full of cots. Definitely not the slave quarters where she’d fallen asleep under the scarred soldier’s watchful eye. Other than a few dozing forms and two people keeping to themselves in the far corner, the space was deserted. That suited her fine; she needed a chamber pot. She squatted, did her business, amazed there was any liquid left in her body to squeeze out. Water would help. Water would wash the fur from her tongue, ease the pounding in her skull.
A push and she was up, lurching toward the bucket near the door of the room. The wet felt good on parched lips, settled in her stomach without threat of rejection. Propped on her elbows, she splashed some on her face, dumped some over her soaked head, down her flushed shoulders and back, drank some more.
It helped. Feeling stronger, braver, she made her way to the doorway, scanned the hall. Empty. Daylight trickled down a stairwell at one end, promised fresh air, a respite from the rank odor of sickness and humanity. She saw no bars, bore no chains. Shaky legs carried her of their own accord.
“Stop!”
She sagged against the wall, caught.
The guard jogged past her to block the passage to the stairs. Just out of arm’s reach, she could clearly make out the ragged scar that traced down his forehead, crossed the bridge of his nose and creased his cheek before fading at his jawline. It looked no less menacing than it had in her dreams, but a mildness tempered his expression, muted her anxiety.
“You’re going back to the infirmary. I have orders not to let you out of my sight.”
She stared past him to drink in the light filtering down the stairwell, inhale the faintly salty air, feel the cool settle on her skin. She looked at him again, her eyes asking.
“No. You are not allowed to leave the infirmary unrestrained.”
She offered up her wrists, more than willing to tolerate chains for a breath of freedom.
“No, absolutely not. No way.”
She sighed, so close. But Scar made no move to manhandle her back to the infirmary. Propped against the wall on unsteady knees, she leaned her head back, let her eyes slide shut. Sounds floated down the stairs. A man shouted to a stable boy to move his horse. A woman told others tales as they worked. Metal rang against metal in an uneven staccato of sword play. Words—no longer banned from her existence—sprung unbidden, gradually strung themselves into thoughts, knitted themselves into scenes, grew into stories. She shook her head to clear it, but imaginings wormed into her tired mind’s eye, tales of heroes and noblewomen and gods entwined in a frayed tapestry woven around one enigmatic warrior princess.
Memories crept in, always unwelcome. These she pushed away, but one stubborn whisper slipped through the darkness of a muggy night.
“She’ll help us.”
Long moments, as his panting settled in the stillness. And then he slid off of her, the mood broken. “Gabrielle, they’re her officers. She sent them here. They do what they do in her name.”
“She would never order the mutilation of an innocent girl—”
“Why, because of those stories you tell? Are those stories even true?”
Her heart pounded in her throat. “Perdicus, she doesn’t know what’s happening here. If Xen—if the Conqueror knew, she’d have that officer crucified by morning. The Conqueror’s severe, yes, but impartial. In her own way. A letter is—”
“Alright.”
“—our only chance. Things will only get worse if we don’t—”
Lips swallowed her words as he pressed her down into their pallet, a long insistent kiss she slowly softened into. He pulled away, and though she couldn’t see his face, she could feel his broad grin.
A deep breath. “If this is an attempt to placate me—”
Gently, “I said I’ll sign it. Tomorrow,” punctuated by another kiss, this one sampling the perspiration pooled in the hollow of her throat. He began to move again with purpose, and she wrapped her legs around him wordlessly, her thoughts a thousand leagues away.
Cold metal clamped around her wrists, jolted her back to the dim passage outside the infirmary. Scar held open the collar. Halfheartedly she lifted her chin, held still while he latched it into place, turned to trudge back down into darkness.
He headed up instead, paused when she didn’t follow. She stared at him uncomprehendingly, but shaky legs stumbled up the steps of their own volition. He took her arm, steadied her until they reached the top.
The courtyard was large, larger than the senator’s, yet less grand for its spare architecture and absence of color or decoration. Roman-style arches formed a loggia, sheltering them from the white sunlight rebounding off the hard-packed dirt. She shrank from the luminous assault, ducked her head behind arms heavier than the chains that bound them, backpedaled until a wall blocked her retreat. Even squeezed shut, her eyes throbbed against the brightness. A breeze tickled her skin, carried smells of the sea, the city, horses, people, food. She slid down to sit on the flagstone, content to absorb the open air and rest in the shade of the portico while her eyes adjusted.
Her escort found a spot just in the corner of her vision at the length of the chain, watched her intently for any sign of trouble. She offered none, kept herself at ease so he would have no reason to cut short this indulgence. She liked him. It had been a long time since a guard had stood watch over her without contempt, lust, fear, or hatred. He gave her space and waited, so calm and still that she almost forgot he was there, could imagine herself sitting under the loggia like a freewoman, watching the world rush by.
A clatter of sandals rushing up the stairs ruined the illusion; a woman burst into the courtyard, eyes frantically searching until they lit upon the slave and her escort. “What are you doing up here? Trying to kill yourself?”
She recognized the kinked blonde curls from her dream, the woman she’d mistaken for her owner.
In the lengthening silence, Scar cleared his throat. “She looks a lot better.”
The woman arched an eyebrow. “Are you a healer now, Dragon?”
The gladiator could hear the tight control in his voice. “No, apprentice, but the fresh air seems to be improving her color. I was going to return her to the infirmary shortly.”
The apprentice considered his excuse, looked down at her patient. The Leopard remained rooted to the ground, determined not to move a muscle unless the soldier commanded it.
With a sigh, the woman crouched down in front of her and put an arm to her forehead, glaring at her when she jerked away. She held out a palm for the bandaged hand but waited patiently, not forcing any contact.
The gladiator looked down at the forgotten wound, curiously flexed it. It felt tender, itched. Itching was good. She unwrapped the cloth, clenched her fist. Half-healed skin stretched taut and white across the back of her hand.
The healer took it, pressed calloused fingertips into the back of her wrist, up her forearm over almost translucent skin. “Infection’s gone.” She took the other arm, examined the triple lines of scars, the paired rows of tiny black holes where stitches once bound flesh. The gladiator raised the hem of her tunic, prodded the matching marks on her leg, tested the muscle with a minimum of discomfort. Clearly she’d been sick more than a day.
The healer’s apprentice leaned back, gave her the once over, squinted up at the soldier. “Don’t stay long. The Conqueror will put us both in the infirmary if she doesn’t get well.” The gladiator craned her neck, watched her go curiously. When her mind wandered this time, she found herself thinking of the woman’s coarse palms and firm grip, imagining how she might have acquired them.
The apprentice’s visit shattered the mood. Soon the weight of the collar shifted; Scar stood close by, gave her a moment to get used to the idea before ordering her up. Reluctantly she left the salt air and bright glare of Mediterranean sun, followed him back down the stairs to the stale infirmary. As they reached the door she took a chance, lay a light hand on his arm, pulled back quickly when he half-spun, hand on the pommel of his sword. She held up her hands to show she meant no harm. How to convey what she wanted to say? She settled for a tight nod, not knowing how else to—
“You’re welcome.” It fell so softly from his expressionless lips, it almost seemed spoken by another. He produced a key and unlocked the restraints. “It’s a one time deal, so don’t get used to it.”
She nodded again with the faintest smile. He’d already given her more than she could have hoped for.
But the next day he appeared in the doorway of the infirmary while she ate lunch, discretely revealed the collar hidden behind his back. She went to him willingly, kept trusting eyes on his face while he chained her. He glanced over her shoulder, nodding to the healer’s apprentice, then led her back up the stairs to the courtyard.
This time they stayed more than a candlemark. Her eyes roamed every corner of the quadrangle, absorbing faces, noting roles and interactions, studying the patterns of the guards, when and where they paced. An old habit, one she acquired years ago as a new slave considering escape.
Her attention most often fell on the soldiers in the center of the square, exercising and drilling. She liked especially to watch them spar, how far apart they circled to stay out of range of those long swords, what stances they preferred, what tactics they used to block and counterattack. Though not as consistently trained as Roman gladiators, they did share some moves in common. And even after the guard returned her to the infirmary, she passed the time as she had for the last three years, mentally working on possible counters and feints and new techniques to confound their strengths and take advantage of their weaknesses. One never knew when such information might come in handy.
Thoughts of the Conqueror receded, although they were never very far away. Every day reminded her that she was a prisoner in the palace of the Conqueror of Greece, that she remained a slave of the Destroyer of Nations, that at any moment this fantasy of freedom would end and she would find herself before the mercurial woman again—and have to face the consequences of their last heated encounter.
The bath. Caesar. She’d let herself be goaded, had been a fool to grab her like that. Gods only knew what the warrior thought of her now, much less what she thought of herself. Did she grope the Conqueror to make a point, or an offer?
She sighed, willing the ache behind her eyes to go away. She would have to explain—
Conversation. Gods, how she missed it. No, not it. She felt no urge to share her thoughts with her escort, kind though he may be. No, it was the Conqueror’s company she missed. Why did words too priceless to reveal to anyone else spill out when alone in her presence? For the longest time the slave had abandoned language altogether, even in her thoughts, only trusting her eyes and feelings and gut reactions. Why not with the Conqueror?
She was too conflicted to answer that question. After the massacre of Poteidaia, after the war and Scupi and Caesar, after the last few days of abuse, a normal person would hate the woman. But she couldn’t dredge up the emotion. Instead her heart ached to know why, ached to explain herself in return. Experience taught her such desires, such thoughts were dangerous. Where the heart and mind went, so followed the mouth. Even more reason to dread an encounter with the Conqueror. She felt her restraint slipping, feared what sort of reaction her impulsive words might provoke in the dangerous woman.
Or in herself.
When Scar arrived, no one in the infirmary seemed surprised, least of all her. Impatiently she presented her throat and wrists for restraint, sped up the stairs to the dusty yard. After a week of confinement it was hard to sit still; she stretched, testing muscles and joints antsy with lack of use. Oh, to swing a sword again.
Though her escort stayed out of the way, he still kept a tight leash on her. She resorted to weaponless drills and exercises to work off pent up energy. The short length of chain between collar and manacles forced her to modify many of the movements, led to no end of frustration, but the workout felt good. And the modifications would prove useful should a fight come her way while wearing the damned thing.
Perhaps sooner than later. Two of the soldiers who’d watched her practice ambled toward her, trouble written in their smirks.
“Cute, isn’t she? Reminds me of a kitten tangled up in yarn.”
“She reminds me of my last fuck, squirming that tight ass while I pinned her.”
The first one laughed nervously at his friend’s vulgarity.
The Leopard ignored them both, continued to practice, but out of the corner or her eye she took in the second one’s demeanor, the cocky attitude, the flicker of a tongue across his teeth. Neither wore the distinctive uniform of her escort, the polished steel cuirass and blue tunic of the Conqueror’s personal guard.
The crude man’s jibes grew raunchier, though the gladiator didn’t hear most of it. Talk like that was as common as breath. She didn’t take the comments personally, knew the soldier only looked at her as he looked at almost every other woman he dealt with save his mother. At least she could defend herself. She only felt some twinge of pity for the other women who crossed the man’s path. Like Orenia, the scullery maid he spoke of as he demonstrated with a smile the manly art of violation.
“That’s enough, sir.” Her escort stepped forward, disgust written in the pinch of his scar. “Get back to your practice.”
The gladiator stayed clear of the confrontation, let her body run through routines as natural as sleeping. But they stood too close to be ignored.
“Joxer? I didn’t know they demoted you to prison guard.”
If he registered the insult, he didn’t let on. “Go back to your business, Lieutenant, if you know what’s best for you.”
“C’mon, we just wanted to have a bit of fun with her,” said the younger one, trying to make light of his friend’s harassment.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught Scar looking her over. “I’m certain that would be a mistake, Eurysthetes. On many levels.”
The young soldier stepped in, started to pull the bolder man away, but the lieutenant wasn’t having it. “No, no. I think Joxer’s gotten a bit full of himself, forgotten his roots. Give him fancy armor and he thinks he’s better than his old commander, isn’t that right?”
“Sir—”
“Remember that skinny little kid from Athens who could barely draw a sword without getting stuck on his scabbard? Look at him now. He gets promoted to the elite guard and thinks he doesn’t owe his old mates a favor or two. We just want to see what this girl is made of, see what she thinks she knows. Is that so bad?”
To her ears it sounded like a lose-lose situation. Refuse to fight and get the stuffing knocked out of her, or fight and face the wrath of the Conqueror for killing two of her soldiers, more if their comrades decided to get involved. She gave the chain a tug, waited for her escort to look at her before indicating the door back down to the infirmary.
He stared the officer down. “You’ve been in the heat too long, Lieutenant. Go cool off.” He turned, motioned for her to get moving.
Under the shaded portico she felt a wash of relief from both sun and threat.
A crash and a wrench on the chain snapped her around. The lieutenant pinned her escort to the ground, yanked the chain from his grip. The Leopard jerked it out of his hand, kicked him across the temple hard enough to stun him. He slumped over her prone export, unmoving.
His young companion wasn’t smiling anymore, gaped at the limp officer before drawing his sword. She placed herself between him and her unconscious escort, spun the heavy chain casually, getting used to the weight and short reach of her wrists. The chain and her fierce look seemed enough to warn the young soldier back. In the fringes of her vision, more soldiers ran from the practice field.
Scar groaned, slowly shoved the lieutenant off, pushed himself up. Reinforcements closed fast. The urge to run made her shudder; being surrounded by dozens of armed soldiers in an uncontrolled brawl sounded like suicide. Her escort didn’t need defending. He wasn’t the one they wanted. But where would she run to? The infirmary? Hardly defensible. In a few leaps she could be on top of the walls, take on the sentries. And go where? She knew nothing about the palace, where to go beyond the four walls of her open prison. Besides, being unarmed was a small problem. Being chained was a big problem. No, her only chance was to protect him, hope he could diffuse the situation.
“What in Tartarus is going on here?”
Or be rescued by a feisty blonde apprentice.
Eurysthetes’ eyes went wide, took in the scene nervously. “Ephiny, she tried to escape, attacked her guard and Lieutenant Ramis.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
Or a certain dark-haired warrior.
The Destroyer strode across the courtyard purposefully, looked between him and the men on the ground, finally settled on the slave. A throng of curious servants and freemen cut off any route of escape. Only one option remained. The Leopard dropped to her knees, depositing the end of the chain at her owner’s feet. The woman stared down at her, her expression cold, looked away as if looking past furniture. “Joxer, what’s this all about?”
Scar pushed to his feet, winced as he fingered a growing lump on his forehead, straightened when he realized who addressed him. “Conqueror. It’s nothing. These men saw your slave practicing and wanted to spar with her. I didn’t think that was wise without getting your permission first.”
“Is that so?” She searched the faces of the young soldier and the woozy lieutenant.
“Your slave?” The young man blanched. “Conqueror, we didn’t know—”
“Permission granted.” A malevolent grin played across her features, left a queasy feeling in the pit of the Leopard’s stomach. “Lieutenant Ramis, on your feet. Joxer, release her.”
She held her breath, heart hammering. Her escort’s familiar hands fumbled with the manacles, the collar, relieved her of the weight. Still kneeling she gazed up, trying to glean from her owner’s expression the rules of this game.
The Conqueror turned that look of wicked pleasure upon her, pitched her voice for the group to hear. “Don’t kill ‘em.”
The soldiers laughed in unison, hemmed them in under the covered portico.
A show then. She stood, turned to face the pair, sounds around her fading to a faint buzz. Eurysthetes did not smile at the joke, flicked the tip of his long sword nervously. Ramis remained calm if slightly unsteady as he drew his sword, his cockiness bolstered by a chance to save face.
Her hands itched, anxious and empty. Rule number one: never fight an armed opponent unarmed.
The lieutenant made the first move, took an experimental swing at her midsection. She jumped back, not so early as to make it look expected, not so far back as to make it look easy. It would take several more retreats to lure him in. Would the circle give, make room for her withdrawal? A quick glance back; the spectators seemed inclined to stay, pin her in the small space.
Rule number two: never let yourself be cornered.
A slash of Ramis’s sword came closer than she liked, sliced open the belly of the brown tunic with an audible rip. The crowd hummed with excitement. She put a hand to her stomach, glanced down find a thin red line painting her palm. The lieutenant bared his teeth, a wolf sampling the scent of prey. Another jump back and her shoulder blades pressed against the broad chest of a soldier stubbornly blocking her retreat. She clenched her jaw.
Rule number three. Never fight two when you can fight one.
He swung again. She ducked low, shot underneath the whistling blade and knuckle-punched the man’s unarmored armpit, drove her foot into the back of his knee and stomped his kneecap into the ground with an audible crack. As he crumpled she grabbed his sword, wrenched it out of the ribcage of the wheezing bystander he’d hit with his wild swing and spun away, crossing swords with the young soldier.
He blinked, unsure how she suddenly stood there. When he blinked again she swept his leg out and dropped him on his back, the sword skittering from his hand.
In a heartbeat the wet red blade flicked back to the lieutenant, followed his progress as he hobbled to his feet, pulling the wounded soldier’s own sword from its scabbard to face her. He should have given up then, tallied his losses at bruised ribs, a swollen knee, and a wounded ego. Had he raised a finger in defeat, she might have left him alone. Might have. But he’d said some things, done some things that struck too close to home, things a man ought not do to a woman against her will. Even a slave.
She wrestled with her rage, forced herself to plant the heavy sword tip down on the ground and rest her hands lightly on the pommel. Let him come if he wanted to. She would not make the first move.
His nostrils flared with ugly pride. His blade lunged for her heart.
Almost as surely as he had her, he missed her. She turned her shoulder away, sword brushing sword aside by the tiniest of margins. The tip of her blade slipped between his legs, carved up and away, flinging a messy arc of dark fluid across the ring of spectators.
Silence crashed down on the impromptu assembly, loud enough to penetrate even her combat haze. In the hush, his sword clattered to the flagstone. He stood frozen, his mouth wrapped around a soundless O, the pressure of his clamped knees the only thing holding him up. Coolly she padded over to face the Conqueror, dropped the stained sword and knelt again, watching her for a reaction. The warrior arched an eyebrow, reappraising her. Would she be punished? Certainly the crowd would clamor for it once they realized what she’d done.
The Conqueror said nothing. With a gesture the collar and wrist shackles snapped back into place, the key placed in her waiting hand.
Sounds began to filter back to life, murmurings. “Dead…killed him…murderer…”
“Ephiny?”
The apprentice’s voice came back tight. “He lives, Conqueror, but I must get him to the infirmary immediately if there is any hope of saving…”
The gladiator knew what she meant to save, knew there was little chance of that. A dangerous grumble rippled through the crowd as they realized it too. “Butcher.” “Amazon.” “Castrator.”
“You men, help her.” Xena’s pale blue eyes scanned the rest of the crowd for trouble.
“She mutilated him!” came a faceless shout.
“What of it?” the Conqueror challenged. “He’s alive; that’s all I require.”
“He’s better off dead!” someone else cried.
She drew her sword. “And the rest of you? Would you be better off dead? Who wants to find out?” No one stepped up to the challenge. “I thought so. Now get back to your business, unless you want to be clapped in irons too!”
A sweep of the Conqueror’s sword dispersed much of the crowd. Her hand dug into the Leopard’s upper arm, dragged her to her feet and away, not down the stairs to the infirmary but to a similar doorway leading down into darkness. It reeked of old blood, rancid meat, sewage. The gladiator recoiled against the smell, but Xena didn’t slow. Joxer grabbed a torch, followed them down a long corridor of cells. “Macon!”
A silhouette appeared in the light at the end of the passage, trotted toward them. Quickly the grimy soldier unlocked the door, held it open as the Conqueror dragged her inside.
“Leave us!”
The jailer flashed a rotten-toothed grin, saluted and left.
“You too, Joxer. Wait upstairs.”
He reluctantly placed the torch in a sconce outside the cell, retreated back the way they’d come, until the only sounds in the small cell were the lick of the torch flames and the pounding of the gladiator’s heart in her ears.
“That was a stupid thing to do.”
She sounded angry and sorry at the same time, and for a moment the gladiator wasn’t sure if she spoke of the Leopard’s choices, or her own. She stretched to her full height, faced the Conqueror unapologetically.
“These men are tight-knit. I trained them that way. To be injured is expected, but to be reduced to a eunuch is a fate the law reserves for rapists—”
“He is.”
“He raped you?”
She snorted. “No. I would have killed him, orders or not. He rapes others and brags.”
“Bragging is not proof!”
She shrugged coldly. “It was a fight. Mistakes happen. He had options. He opted to provoke it, to accept your challenge, to keep fighting when he was already beaten. I opted to ignore his taunting, to beg for your intervention, to give you and him plenty of chances to stop it. He kept coming. What other choice did I have?”
“You know damn well you had a choice! ‘Mistakes?’ You don’t make mistakes. Not like that. You planned it, led him right into it—”
“And would do it again.”
The Conqueror’s mouth tightened to a thin line. “You force me—”
Her temper boiled over. “No. You force me. This is who I am. You tell me to fight, I fight. You tell me to kill, I kill. This is all I know. If I rid the world of a few men like him, then I take some small comfort from it. If you want to punish me for being exactly what you paid for, then go ahead.” Bands of anger clamped down on her chest. When the woman didn’t answer, she forced an exhale, blinked away the spots in her eyes.
The Conqueror continued, her voice low and even. “You force me to put you here for your own safety. The men will want revenge, and the infirmary is too accessible. Only Macon and I will have the key to your cell. Your escort Joxer will be by every day to check on you, bring you food and drink until the men calm down.”
She unlocked the restraints from her neck and wrists, noted the rip across the front of the tunic, the oozing cut, took a quick look before dismissing it. “It’s only a scratch. Just keep it clean.” She took in the dirty straw on the floor, the foul hole in the corner. “I’ll send someone tomorrow to make sure.” She gathered up the restraints and stepped out, shut the cell door behind her. There she paused. “You fought well today.”
Perhaps the Conqueror’s unexpected praise lent the gladiator some measure of confidence. Or perhaps the threat of their discussion ending pushed her to bring it up. “Xena? The other day, I—”
Brittle eyes bored into her. “I told you not to call me that.”
She lost her nerve, licked her lips, changed her mind. “I never thanked you for rescuing me from the senator.”
“Rescuing you? I didn’t rescue you. I bought you, plain and simple.”
“Why? You don’t even have an arena.”
The Conqueror’s face remained blank. “Then I guess I’ll need to build one.”
Chilled by the response, she forced her tone to be neutral. “Would it please the Conqueror to spar again?”
The corner of Xena’s mouth twitched as if to smile, quickly faded to the narrowed squint of suspicion. “Is that what you wish?”
She kicked herself for not keeping quiet. Slaves don’t ask to fight their owners. “My wishes are irrelevant. I belong to Greece. I serve Greece as she sees fit.”
Clearly not the right answer by the set of the Conqueror’s jaw. “And if that means death in the arena?”
Some tension left her shoulders. “I expect nothing else.”
The Conqueror’s eyebrow floated into her hairline. “Well, Leopard. You’ll have your wish.” She collected the torch and retreated down the hall, leaving the dungeon in darkness.
The girl enjoyed dreams. They took her places she’d only heard about in stories, to the lands of the Gauls, the Pharaohs, the Persians, more distant lands she couldn’t imagine. In them she found freedom, or at least some pale shadow of it. Dreams made her heart hurt with longing, but they also brought joy, and hope. Her waking life was nothing without hope. Dreams nourished her soul.
The girl let the woman she’d become deal with the nightmares. Like the one she woke with, cloaking her in pain and nausea. Her whole body shook with the violence of it, her eyes sightless but for the vision, her ears filled with screams. Her screams.
Her jaw clamped down only to find it already shut. No sound passed from her lips, just an echo of the nightmare.
Slowly the memory of it faded. She drew long quivering breaths, reassured herself that the broken body of her hallucination was somewhat whole and inviolate. She tried to will her trembling limbs into some semblance of stillness. They refused to obey, keyed in to some primal reaction she couldn’t override. She curled in, pulled the wool blanket tighter around her.
Another scream. A woman’s, high and hollow. It sent a tremor down her spine. She knew that noise as intimately as she knew her own body, a yowl of pain, rage, and horror.
The feral thing within twitched, pulse and breath quick, hackles high, claws dug in, every nerve on edge. As the cry died out she sagged back, shivering.
The next howl brought her hands to her ears, before she ground her teeth, forced them back down to her side. Screams like that deserved to be heard. That kind of pain needed to be shared.
She forced herself up, crept across the floor to press her cheek against the bars. The direction she’d come down sat dark and silent with night. The other direction, the deepest end of the long narrow hallway, glowed faintly with the flicker of torchlight. She couldn’t see to the end, could just make out the dull reflection of several cell doors across the way, their doors hanging open and hungry.
Another shout, hoarse and broken, an involuntary response to agony grown familiar. The absence of other sounds made her skin crawl. No cracks of the whip, no crunch of flesh and bone, no voices of questioning or taunting, no grunts of exertion or pleasure. She forced down a shudder, extended her hearing to its very limits.
The faint ring of metal dropped on sand. The rasp of a whisper, low and soft. The creak of leather pulled tight. All drowned out by that horrific scream.
The girl inside covered her ears.
Echoing bootsteps sent her skittering away from the door. She made herself small in the darkest corner of her cell, held her breath as the hooded figure strode by until footsteps faded up the stairs. She sucked in deep ragged breaths, pushed back sweat-soaked bangs with hands that shook, refused to be still.
She almost missed the arrival of another cloaked visitor, thinner than the first, more cautious. Soft sandals whispered on the flagstone, moved swiftly and silently by. Neither visitor carried illumination; as before, the figure passed without feeling her stare. It headed toward the source of the sounds, and once out of sight and hearing, the Leopard couldn’t resist the urge to creep to the edge of the cell once more.
Two figures dragged a third down the hall, put their burden in a cell across the corridor, far enough down that she could barely see it from her angle. Not that it would have mattered; a solid metal door blocked any view of the inside. The jailor left, returned with a candle, then locked the visitor in with the prisoner.
Quietly there came humming, strange formless notes woven into a forlorn melody. It might have sounded comforting if not for the singer’s cracking voice.
Drained, the gladiator leaned her head back against the wall and listened, rode the simple song out of the palace to the wilder, happier places of a girl’s dreams.
The rattle of a key woke her. Disoriented, it took her a moment to remember the cell, how she came to sleep with her head resting against the coarse iron bars of the door. Kneecaps filled her vision, dirty legs and grubby boots half-lit by daylight trickling down the stairwell. She rolled away to her feet, crouched and ready to fight before Scar stepped in front of the jailer.
The door locked behind him, left them alone.
“Brought you food.” He presented a bowl and spoon from behind his back. The pasty gruel looked cold, but she took it, tentatively sampled it before wolfing it down. He grinned, an almost ridiculous expression the way the scar twisted it. “You better slow down. You’ll only encourage the cook by eating as if you like it.”
She did slow down, gradually noticed him watching her intently, enough to make her uncomfortable. Overcast green eyes stared him down until he looked away.
“Sorry.” He ground the straw under his boot, his lips pursed in thought. “The Conqueror says you attacked the lieutenant when he jumped me, kept the other one off me.”
She stared into the empty bowl, refused to meet his eyes.
“I don’t know why you did it, but I know you didn’t have to. Thanks.”
She chewed on her lip, finally nodded.
He almost smiled at the acknowledgement. Finally he made up his mind, voiced the question he longed to ask. “Why don’t you say anything?”
The gladiator dropped her gaze, vaguely shrugged. She liked him. She really did. But he was not her.
Scar finally shrugged. “Hey, it doesn’t matter. I appreciate a person of few words. I don’t usually say much either. I’m not very good at explaining myself, but it’s easy to talk to you. There’s no pressure to sound smart, and I don’t have to worry about you butting in all the time, y’know?” He offered a self-conscious smirk, an out-of-place expression on his usually hard face. In spite of herself, the corners of her mouth curled around a tiny but genuine smile.
He cleared his throat, dropped his gaze to study the ground as he considered his next words. “You probably don’t remember, but I was there that night in the senator’s yard. All I’m trying to say is, I make a pretty good listener, too.”
She stood absolutely still, unsure what to do. Before the moment became too awkward, he nodded, collected the bowl and spoon from her and headed back to the door. “I brought some bread and water for later. Try to make it last. I won’t see you again until tomorrow, but the healer or his apprentice should be by later this afternoon. I’ll go now…unless you’d like me to stay?”
His question surprised her. There was no need for him to stay; she wasn’t going anywhere. And after years of sharing almost every moment of every day with slaves, servants, masters, and guards, constantly on her guard against being touched, abused, violated, or killed, she treasured any rare moment of solitude. But after last night…she nodded, backed away to lean against the far wall out of habit. Stand too close to a guard and they could get ideas.
He remained near the door. Minutes passed in silence. Not like the courtyard. Awkward empty minutes. In the small space, she had nothing to look at, nothing to study but him. His scar. Wonder how he got it.
Other handlers might have taken the eye contact as a challenge, beaten her for it. He looked away, uncomfortable. Just for a moment, before he took a deep breath.
“It happened in Athens. I shouldn’t have been there. My old man…” He shook his head, met her eyes with a serious look of his own. “I just wanted…to be part of something.” He snorted. “She was definitely something. I didn’t even know how to use a sword. My first battle, someone gave me this. I should’ve died. But she…” He flushed, shrugged. “It was the first time I ever saw her. I’m sure it was just another kill for her. But she spared me one glance, one look. ‘Do better.’”
Gabrielle could see it, a young man sprawled in the dirt, his once-soft face laid open to the bone, blinking the blood out of his eye to stare up at his rescuer. Worship glistened in his look, then and now. The Dragon would rather die than let her down again.
He cleared his throat. “Enough of that. I sound like some doe-eyed… Hey, did I tell you I have kids?”
He launched into one story after another, and it must have been after midday when he finally pushed up for a stretch, ending with a grin. “You let me talk too much. Macon!”
She stood clear while the prison guard let him out, locked the cell door behind him.
He held up the empty bowl. “I’ll be back tomorrow with a lot more food. Stay out of trouble, alright?”
His request was heartfelt. She couldn’t help but smirk and nod her head as he headed up the stairs and out of sight.
She passed the afternoon in the small space practicing, stirring up a sweat, until the cell darkened, the weak afternoon light blocked by a visitor. Ephiny waited for the keeper to let her in, said nothing until he disappeared again. Finally she sighed. “You’ve done nothing since you arrived but cause me extra work. Lieutenant Ramis kept us up half the night.” She set down her healer’s pouch, hooked one finger at the gladiator. “Let me see this wound.”
The Leopard made a face, waved her off. The apprentice closed in anyway. “Listen, I have direct orders from the Conqueror to make sure you are well. She will be most displeased if you keep me from doing my duties. Let’s just hurry up and get this over with.”
The slave set her jaw, stripped the torn tunic. Cleaning the scratch took little time. She spent a little longer tending older injuries.
“Where did you learn that move? The one you used on Lieutenant Ramis?”
The day she learned that move came back to her with crystal clarity, as did the amazing gladiator who taught her. Her mentor. Her friend, just weeks before— She shrugged, avoided that gaze.
Ephiny’s lips drew tight. “When you were sick she came to visit you. The Conqueror. You called for her by name. No one calls her by her name. Who is she to you? Who are you to her?”
She clamped down on her surprise. That she spoke in her delirium worried her; what other secrets had she betrayed to this woman? Worse, she spoke the one word she was absolutely forbidden to say. Was that why the Conqueror didn’t send for her?
At her long silence, the apprentice let out a held breath, packed her salves away. “Try to keep straw and dirt out of that cut. Guard!”
As he approached, the Leopard gestured to the pouch of medicines the healer carried, pointed down the corridor toward the other prisoner’s cell. Ephiny cocked her head, her eyebrows knitted. Again the slave pointed at the healer’s bag, then down the hall. The woman shook her head, not understanding. “What? The jailer needs medicine?”
She didn’t get another chance. Macon appeared, unlocked the cell door to let the apprentice out.
Frustrated, she fought down the urge to punch something besides air. Her practice intensified after that, made her sweat with the force of shadow punches and kicks. The workout quickly degenerated into a parade of angry kicks at the bars of the door, making them resonate with a ring that filled the corners of the darkening cell.
A heavy club smacked the door, jolted her out of her rage. Macon stepped into view, “Cut that out, pretty, or tomorrow your guests will have to stand in the hall.”
She glowered at him until he left, slid down the wall, worn out and helpless.
She must have dozed off. A hiss woke her. She lifted her head grudgingly, tired of visitors.
A servant stood against the opposite wall of the corridor, pressed as far back from the cell door as she could get. She looked young, barely in her teens. Dark half-rings purpled under both eyes.
“I—I thought you could use this.” She tossed at the bars a bit of linen. The Leopard retrieved it, held up a tan tunic, cast the girl a baffled look. “I heard about what you did today. I just wanted to thank you.” At her blank look, the girl struggled for words. “I’m Orenia. Lieutenant Ramis—”
She crossed to the bars, reached out, waiting. The girl pressed even harder against the stone wall, clearly afraid, but with persistent coaxing stepped forward, let the gladiator brush the bruises on her face. The Leopard held up the tunic, clutched it to her chest and offered Orenia a somber nod. The girl’s dark eyes twitched in pleasure.
A sound from depths of the dungeon reminded them they were not alone. The skittish girl backed away, sped up the stairs and out of sight.
She looked back down at the tunic, working the coarse fabric between her fingers. Reverently the torn one came off. Precious water wet one corner of it, and with it she bathed as best she could, an impromptu ritual to make herself worthy of the offering.
The sound from the hall again. Quickly she finished and pulled the tunic over her head, moved to the dark hallway to listen. She heard it again, a weak moan from behind the solid door.
She flicked a fingernail against the bars of her cell. The noise was faint, perhaps too faint. A long time passed before she heard the broken groan again. She rapped her knuckles against the bars, knocking as loud as she dared without attracting the jailer’s notice.
A faint clink of metal on stone this time. She responded with a rap. Two rings of tapped metal. She rapped twice on the bars, mimicked every clink. She had nothing to offer but her response, reassurance that the prisoner was not alone. Still, such knowledge could be a lifeline when cut off from the world.
Eventually the noises stopped. She strained her ears, listening, waiting for them to resume, and for the second night of many to come she fell asleep against the bars of her cell.
Late morning sun heated the hard-packed dirt of the courtyard. Servants and soldiers alike pulled scarves and cowls over their heads to ward off the growing heat, shield their eyes from the harsh Corinthian sun.
The Conqueror’s pale eyes hardly noticed the glare, or the crowd. She devoured the combat in the middle of the courtyard, felt the flow of each swing, the jarring impact of each blow. The Leopard moved like water, sometimes still and patient, sometimes soft and yielding, sometimes hard and forceful. How do you attack water?
Her opponent clearly had no answer and suffered. Barely more than half his height, she remained almost unmarked. He on the other hand bore dozens of small gashes across bare arms and legs. Partway around the ring of onlookers the Conqueror caught Ephiny’s scowl as another line opened up on the soldier’s calf. She had a long afternoon of stitching to look forward to.
She almost felt bad for the soldier. His so-called friends, members of Lieutenant Ramis’ unit, elected him as their instrument of revenge upon the gladiator. He was a passable fighter, and he stood half a head taller than any other man in his unit. When the men approached her about a grudge match, she already knew whom they would pick as their champion. Typical, that they were ever impressed with—and relied upon—size.
Size was no obstacle for the Leopard. He had the advantage of both strength and reach, true, but so did almost every other gladiator she’d ever fought. As the Conqueror knew firsthand, she had a great deal of experience in how to counter size and strength. She danced just out of the range, let him chase her down until he spent much of his aggression, then systematically began disassembling him. There was no playing to the crowd, no humiliating or showboating. Trickles of blood flowing down his arms were shame enough, her timing and precision impressive enough. Her face showed no pleasure from this fight. The Conqueror wondered if she truly felt nothing. She could have sworn she remembered a glimmer of a smile on that hard face before the Leopard removed the lieutenant’s manhood.
The soldier’s comrades had complained bitterly at the “no-kill” stipulation on the match, sometimes shouted for him to finish her, send her to Tartarus. Now they mostly stood quiet, perhaps glad his life would be spared. He could hardly lift his arms, wobbled on tired legs between clashes, kept wiping his palms for a better grip on his sword, marking his tunic with long red smears.
A presence encroached on her enjoyment, pressed close behind her shoulder. Bellerophon murmured in her ear, “The emissaries from Egypt have arrived, Conqueror. They await you in the great hall.”
She waved him off. “Let them wait. This is almost over.”
The gladiator circled the soldier, gauging his defenses, his reserves. They’d been going at it some time, and the gladiator’s arm drooped under the unfamiliar weight of the long sword. When it dipped again he swung with everything he had, one last summoning of strength to overwhelm her. Too late he recognized the feint, realized she was not so tired as she seemed when she disappeared under his swing. He might have tripped on his own momentum, but the sweep of her powerful leg made certain he dropped face-first in a cloud of dust.
She scrambled to her feet, kicked the sword from his hands, lay hers across the back of his neck.
The fool tried to get up. She kicked his arm out from under him, dropped him again, pressed harder with the flat of her sword. He tried to push up again. She shoved him back down. He tried to push up again. She threw the Conqueror a look of frustration and disgust. The Conqueror gazed back at her icily. When it became clear no intervention was forthcoming, she smashed the pommel into the back of his skull. He slumped to the dust.
There were no cheers from the audience. This was no battle won against great odds. This wasn’t even a contest. Servants and officials muttered amongst themselves. Soldiers looked on with disappointment and open hostility. The gladiator moved to stand before her owner, neither dropping her sword nor kneeling, her green eyes burning with words she wouldn’t say. You could have stopped it. I didn’t want to hurt him.
The Conqueror rankled at her tiny act of rebellion, at the very rawness of emotions closer to the surface than the Leopard ever allowed, anger and resentment, as if a slave had any right to feel such things. The warrior held out her hand, took the offered sword and gestured impatiently at the ground. The gladiator dropped to her knees, eyes staring straight ahead while the collar clicked into place.
Long fingers laced under the heavy ring in their own iron grip, knuckles pressed subtly against the taut throat, just enough to constrict breath and pulse, remind the slave of her place.
“Demetrius?”
He glanced up from the soldier, his disapproval of the whole affair cast in the deep creases of his face. “He lives.” And so low he perhaps thought no one would her, “At least for now.”
She pitched her voice for everyone assembled to hear. “Your champion lost in a fair match. There will be no more challenges on Lieutenant Ramis’ behalf. And know this. Any attack on my property is an attack on me, and will be dealt with severely. Now get back to work.” She hauled the insolent slave to her feet, handed her off to Joxer. “Take her back to her cell.”
As the crowd parted she looked up to see the Egyptian envoy standing there. Bellerophon approached, his face apologetic. “They wanted to take in the entertainment.”
“Entertainment, huh?” She eyed them, wondered how much of that display of defiance and discipline they caught. Curse the gods, this was no time to show weakness. She plastered on her best negotiation face and headed for them. “Emissary. I hear you’ve developed a taste for Roman amusements.”
“That daughter of a jackal!”
The Conqueror threw open the doors to her chambers. The nerve of Cleopatra, demanding her tribute be cut in half! Already pain gnawed at her gut. What nastiness did that little snake have in the works if her Conqueror refused?
A rumpled cot pressed itself into her awareness, empty and accusing, its occupant two days departed. Niklos’ absence left her feeling out of sorts, irritable and lonely. A hard swallow pushed down nausea, cooled her rage.
She retreated to the main chamber, shed the elaborate dinner dress and discarded it on the floor with some small satisfaction. Hardly mature, taking her frustration out on rare and expensive dresses. Didn’t change the fact it felt pretty damn good.
As she pulled a tunic over her head, the key around her neck caught her eye, stirred oddly pleasant memories. An idea struck, a possible cure for an otherwise unshakable foul mood. She threw on battle leathers and boots quickly, eager to get down to the courtyard.
Another cot grabbed her eye, fresh linens still folded on it. She half-glared at it, should have had it removed days ago. Yes, she’d have Vidalis take care of it tomorrow.
Remarkable how she could be so excited and incensed about the same person.
Late as it was, the halls of the palace were not empty. Servants cleaned up after the dinner, soldiers stood watch, but no one spared her more than a passing glance or smart salute. The Conqueror was known for night wanderings and surprise inspections. No one wanted to attract unfavorable attention.
They didn’t interest her tonight. Already she could feel the knives in her abdomen dull as light feet carried her to the west courtyard.
She was halfway down darkened stairs to the dungeon when noises stopped her, faint ticks on stone, thumps on metal. She listened, let her eyes adjust to the dim torchlight bleeding from the room at the far end of the passage. The thumping came from a cell near the stairs. Boots carried her silently forward until she could make out the faint glow of pale hair. The Leopard’s knuckles rapped against the bars in some sort of pattern, waiting while other noises replied from another cell further down.
The pain in her stomach roared back full force. “What in Tartarus are you up to?”
The slave bolted away from the bars, retreated into the darkest corners of the cell where her owner couldn’t see her. But she could hear rapid breathing, feet shifting nervously on straw.
A head poked into view, the sleepy Macon pushing a torch into the hall. “Conqueror?” He hurried down the hall, fishing a key from his belt.
Orange brightness filled the cell, revealed the gladiator’s guilty stance. For an angry moment the Conqueror wanted to forget the whole thing, leave her in the cell to rot. The jailer held up the key uncertainly. Tightly she nodded, stood aside as the cell door opened. “Let’s go.”
The Leopard stepped out of the cell stiffly, almost flinching when she passed. Clearly she expected to be hit. The Conqueror wouldn’t give her the satisfaction…yet. She pushed her toward the stairs.
They crossed the courtyard without saying anything, ended up in the armory by the barracks. “Choose.” She gestured to the rack of practice weapons. The gladiator eyed her distrustfully. “Choose!”
Reluctantly she stepped up, her fingers brushing across dozens of swords, spears, and clubs. Her hands closed around the familiar hilts of two gladii, almost pulled them from the rack before they froze, took out a battered pair of chobos instead, staring at the fighting sticks in shock. She turned to the Conqueror, her disbelief apparent.
The Conqueror noted her choice with interest. Farm girl indeed. “You like those? They belonged to one of my slaves.”
She looked down at the sticks in her hands, gave them an experimental swing. Actually, she spun the weapons with practiced skill. Amused at the gladiator’s slip, the Conqueror selected a long wooden sword, moved to face her opponent.
The Leopard thumbed the grips of the weapons, eyes gone vacant with memory. Slowly they fixed on the Conqueror, cold and hard, as she padded out toward the center of the courtyard to take a ready stance.
Sword crashed into chobo. The Leopard let the taller woman set the pace and intensity of the match, backing out of reach when the attacks came too hard or fast. Every time the Conqueror tried to maneuver her into a corner the slippery bitch somehow managed to escape the tightening noose. As in their previous encounters the Leopard did not strike, merely guarded and gave ground even when the Conqueror deliberately left openings in her defense.
“Attack!”
The Leopard refused.
“Attack, damn you!”
“Why?” she growled. “Need an excuse to kill me?”
“You think I need an excuse? I’ll kill you when it pleases me and nothing more.”
Wood cracked against wood, hard and fast, but the gladiator’s defense was nearly impenetrable. The Conqueror would definitely have to open her up.
“You know, she’s still around. The owner of those weapons. I don’t know why I let her live. I suppose she amuses me, too.”
She grinned when the gladiator’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Where is she?”
“Oh, I think you already know.”
The Leopard frowned in thought, suddenly gaped in comprehension.
A smack to the temple dropped her. Woozily the gladiator staggered to her feet, eyes glassy and unfocused, chobos blindly blocking strikes, stumbling back when a kick doubled her over. The Conqueror moved in to finish her, but the woman dropped out of sight; the next moment she thudded to the dirt, her legs kicked out from beneath her. The Leopard sprinted across the courtyard toward the dungeon.
The Conqueror swore, charged after her. The gladiator careened off the walls of the stairwell, still reeling from the blow, but she managed to stay well out of reach as they raced past a dozen cell doors lining the underground passage. Her prey burst into the torchlit room at the end and skidded to a stop, staring. Seeing her chance she launched, but the slave bolted aside. By the time she rolled to her feet, Macon lay unconscious on the floor, his keys in the Leopard’s hand.
The Conqueror lunged, blocked the doorway to the passage of cells. For the second time that night, she fairly vibrated with fury. “Put those keys down now.”
Her tone would have stopped any sane person in their tracks. By the fire in her eyes, the Leopard was too enraged to qualify. “I have to see her.”
“Is it worth your life?”
Her eyes darted around the dimly lit room at the heart of the dungeon, at the chains and knives and whips hanging on the walls. Though she paled, the instruments only incensed her. “What have you done to her?”
The Conqueror straightened to look down at the mutinous slave. “Nothing more than an enemy of the state deserves. Give me those keys.”
Her voice quavered, low but vehement. “No one deserves this place.”
“Give up those keys and I may spare your life, Amazon.”
The sickly green glow in those eyes sputtered.
“Chobos are Amazon weapons. Any Amazon who refuses to renounce the Nation or her Queen faces crucifixion.”
The Leopard snorted bitterly. “I’m no Amazon. Their Queen was Caesar’s prisoner, his star gladiator. She taught me how to fight. She did such a fine job that I killed her.”
The Conqueror searched her face for truth. “In the arena?”
A sneer of disgust. “Caesar wouldn’t allow her that honor. I murdered her for his own private amusement.”
In her distraction Xena saw pain and half-truth. And opportunity. She lunged, almost snatched the keys. Instead she caught a stick across the temple, bounced off the wall before crashing into darkness.
The Leopard stared wide-eyed at the unconscious woman at her feet. The Conqueror came in so fast, she just reacted—
When her owner woke, she was good as dead.
Heart pounding, her unfocused vision floated to the room beyond, full of instruments best used to inflict pain and suffering. In a daze she stepped over the limp form, plucked a wicked blade from a stand next to the giant stained table, dropped down beside the Conqueror. It would be quick. The blade found the delicate neck, bounced against the thump of a fierce heart, opened a thin split along ivory skin.
She hovered there, ready, her breathing shallow. But her hand didn’t move. It twitched and stilled, caught in a war between forces she didn’t understand. Her jaw clenched, ground teeth together until she snarled in frustration, jabbing the knife into the dirt.
With a deep breath she rose, slid the key into the heavy lock and turned it, pulled the iron door open. Darkness. She retrieved a torch, followed it into the cell.
Orange light spilled into the bare cell, rank with the stench of human waste. Against the far wall, arms hanging from shackles, sat the remnants of a woman grown thin with starvation, skin drawn tight around bones and little else. Translucent alabaster flesh formed the cloth upon which some dark artist scored and sewed a quilt of cuts and stitches. Nearly every square inch of skin criss-crossed with long ragged scars, some several moons healed, some bright and livid with the passing of mere days.
The Leopard scarcely breathed, tentatively crossed the cell. She held the torch closer, her other hand brushing back a long curtain of dirty copper curls.
The head lifted, dull sunken eyes peering out from a ruined patchwork face that turned her stomach.
Rough hands grabbed her from behind. She spun with a punch, stopped it within hairs of Scar’s face. Her fist hovered there, cocked, hungry to hit someone, anyone who would do that to a person. Or allow it to happen. He glanced passed her at the prisoner, hustled her out of the tiny room, white knuckled fingers dug in to her bicep.
More soldiers hauled the Conqueror to her feet, steadied her as she shook her head. She rubbed her temple, took in the open door, the gladiator. Her face twisted in rage and she snatched up a sword, raised it to strike the mulish head from the Leopard’s shoulders. She didn’t flinch, didn’t block, didn’t move. Contempt burned in her eyes for the woman who would order such torture, as gruesome as anything Caesar ever meted out. She raised her chin, willing her owner to swing.
The Conqueror hesitated, her eyes drawn to the woman chained to the wall. A slight frown formed on her face as she stepped in, brought a torch closer to see. Her scowl deepened.
“Who did this?”
Her voice cut through all sounds. No one offered an answer. She stepped back into the hall, glowered at the soldiers, the unconscious jailer. Piercing blue eyes settled on the Leopard. She stared back, surprised at the Conqueror’s anger. That alone dampened her own righteous rage, left a muddle of emotions far more complicated and confusing.
The cell door swung shut, cutting off her view. “Lock that man up,” Xena growled, gesturing at Macon.
Scar cleared his throat. “Conqueror, should I summon a healer?”
She glared at him. Nervously he gestured vaguely at his own neck, nodded to hers. A hand went to her throat, found the thin crusted cut. Her gaze dropped to the blade on the ground, the Leopard. A furious heat flushed her face. In one smooth motion she snatched up the chobos and keys and swept out of the dungeon. “Bring her.”
Plenty of eyes followed them as they made their way through the palace. They shrank from the Conqueror’s tempest, threw pitying looks at the slave dragged behind her. Eventually they ended up in a hallway on the upper floor in front of a set of heavy double doors. “You’re dismissed,” her owner barked over her shoulder, taking the slave by the arm and pushing her through the doors.
The royal bedchambers. She’d lost count of the days since her first and last disastrous visit. A luxurious bath, unexpected frankness between them, sudden hostility…the cell seemed far less surreal.
The Conqueror slammed the doors shut behind them and stood there, her back to the slave, arms bunching, hands gripping the chobos so hard she could swear she heard wood creak. She flung them past the Leopard to clatter against the far wall. “You infuriate me!”
The gladiator winced, stood carefully still.
One long finger stabbed back the way they’d come. “You saw who did that, didn’t you? That’s how you knew she was there, who she is!”
She shook her head, kept her thoughts and feelings under tight rein. She almost even managed to still the tremor in her voice. “I don’t know who she is. I’ve never seen her before. And truthfully, I thought you did it.”
Blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “Think again.”
Her fury sounded genuine. She searched Xena’s face, hunting for any hint of deception, found none, grasped at the threads of her unraveling anger. “Whoever it is, the jailer lets them in and out. Ask him.”
“I can’t. You clobbered him.”
The gladiator met the glare stubbornly, neither sorry nor apologetic. They stared each other down, locked in a battle of wills and doubts.
The Conqueror sighed and shook her head. “Gods defend us. When the Amazons find out, I’ll be neck deep in rebels and assassins.”
The Leopard stared at her a few moments. Had the Destroyer of Nations just called a truce? Uncertainly she clung to her temper, ready to meet that sharp gaze again, but the Conqueror turned away and headed into one of the antechambers, sloughing off her battle leathers. She stared at the retreating back in amazement, finally allowed her shoulders to relax.
Alone in the middle of the large bedchamber, a shiver crept up her spine. For the first time in nearly five years, she stood in a place without bars or chains or watching eyes. She glanced nervously around the massive bedchamber. The Leopard, formidable adversary in the arena, slave in the clambers of some of the most powerful rulers of the known world, suddenly small, naked, and…afraid. When had the trappings of her captivity become comforting? Without them she felt exposed, vulnerable. This was what she waited for, wasn’t it? The opportunity to escape? Outside the double doors stood a single guard, a series of uncomplicated and lightly-guarded hallways to…where? Beyond the courtyard she knew nothing of this place. Still, it was a chance. More chance than she’d had in years.
“Think you’d make it?”
She flinched. The Destroyer leaned her head out of the antechamber. Could she read minds as well? The slave struggled to mask her guilt. “Make it where?”
“Out of here? Do you think you could escape the palace?”
The gladiator’s vision fairly pulsed with the thoughts pounding through her head. She swallowed hard. “No.” The Conqueror arched a disbelieving eyebrow. She shifted uncomfortably at the lie, finally squared her shoulders. “Maybe.”
“What’s stopping you?”
She struggled to suppress roiling emotions. Gods, how she wanted to retreat to that fog where the Leopard thought nothing, felt nothing. Since breaking her silence, that purity, that crystal clarity of acting and reacting eluded her. She opened her mouth several times, conflicted. “Not sure. You, I suppose.” She flushed with color at the admission, fervently looked away. Numb feet carried her across the room to the window, a narrow thing that viewed a slice of the palace, the practice courtyard below. Had the Conqueror stood at this window, watched the slave sit in the shade of the loggia and run through her exercises and drills? Why not? Hadn’t she appeared out of nowhere just in time to stop Ramis’ men from beating her to death? True or not, it brought her some comfort to believe the Conqueror kept an eye on her.
She looked over her shoulder, wondering if the Conqueror watched her now. An empty cot just inside the main doors caught her eye. “Your servant, the boy…is he better?”
Rustling in the antechamber grew still. “I sent him home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Mount Nestos.”
That name jarred a memory. A a girl she used to sit in the rafters of the barn, staring out across Poteidaian fields and rolling hills at distant grey peaks to the north, capped brilliant white with an early fall snow. A lump of longing strangled her; she cleared it from her throat. “That’s days away. When will he be back?”
“Weeks away, actually. And never.”
Perhaps it was the way her voice faltered as she said it. A coldness suddenly sank into the gladiator’s bones.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” A false lightness colored a voice thick with emotion. “He’s not dead. His father Niklio is an old hermit healer, best I’ve ever known. If there’s anyone who can help Niklos, it’s him. And even if Niklos does heal, he’s never coming back. It’s too dangerous here for someone like him.”
Someone like him. She wondered how the Conqueror classified people like him. Young? Innocent? Defenseless? Undamaged?
Her foot bumped a discarded chobo. She picked it up, turned it over in her hand. It looked almost identical to the pair she learned with, the carvings on the shaft depicting a bare-breasted archer taking aim at a stag in the forest. “Who was that prisoner?”
“Queen Terreis. I caught her in a raid on the northern territories. Her tribe’s been a pain in my backside, but so long as I have her, the Amazons behave. Now this.” She stepped out of the dressing antechamber, her favorite old robes shrouding the long thin figure. She rolled her neck and shoulders, already bearing the weight of new troubles.
Gabrielle thought a long moment. “You didn’t do it. Why don’t you bring the culprit to justice, set the queen free? Or at least let her live as a slave. Let the Amazons see you set things right.”
The warlord sighed. “It doesn’t work like that.” She disappeared into the bath chamber.
Left alone, the silence became unnerving. Her thoughts kept drifting to the Conqueror standing over her, sword raised. She drew in a long breath, her voice low with uncertainty. “I was sure you were going to kill me tonight.”
The Conqueror grunted, returned holding a cloth to her bleeding brow. “Nearly did. But then we wouldn’t be having this pleasant conversation.” Troubling thoughts made the Conqueror shake her head, pour a goblet of wine to wash them away. Absently she scratched her throat, fingered the cut across her neck. “You could have killed me too. Why didn’t you?”
The Leopard thought about that. “Maybe I wanted to talk to you, too.”
The Conqueror snorted. It lacked intimidation, turned inward. Another swig of wine gave voice to her thoughts. “Why? You don’t talk to anyone else. Why me?”
No answer presented itself. She stood there, her thoughts jumbled, wrestling for dominance. Reflexively she grabbed the damp rag thrown her way as the dark-haired woman padded over to the table of food. The bloodstained cloth was wet and cool on the lump at her temple, brought instant relief. Her owner brought the plate of treats to the giant bed, gestured for the Leopard to sit. She didn’t. The Conqueror’s friendly demeanor cooled a bit. “You sure as Hades never talked to Caesar.”
Bile rose in her throat, laced her words. “It was Caesar who taught me the value of silence.” She turned to a clean spot on the cloth, pressed it against her head while she considered. “That—the first night we met, you…saw me. You didn’t underestimate me because I was small, or young, or a woman, or a slave, or even a gladiator. You respected my skills and fought accordingly. So I respect you. And when you realized I was hurt, you could have pressed the advantage but you didn’t. You helped me, fixed my shoulder, showed fairness and mercy. So I help you. And then you said you wanted us to fight again when I was healed, as equals. So I treat you as an equal. And when we did fight again, you saved me from my owner. So I protect you.”
“Equals, huh?”
The gladiator shifted her feet, fought to keep her nerve under the withering stare. “Yes. Equals. Not in station, I know that, but as mortals under Olympus. I think you understand me like no one else can. And I understand you. We’re fighters. We act; we don’t watch. We look for trouble; we don’t run from trouble. You’re the first person in almost four years I actually want to talk to.”
“I’m touched,” the warrior snipped. But she seemed at a loss for any comment more cutting. The silence stretched on. The gladiator took a deep breath.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“I won’t promise an answer.”
She eased herself to the floor beside the bed, leaned her head against the pad, the rag almost forgotten in her hand. “Why did you destroy Poteidaia?”
The Conqueror’s face grew still and stark. She nodded. “I’ll answer, if you tell me this first. Why did you leave it?”
A familiar cold settled in her stomach, verging on the brink of violent illness. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for a plunge into icy waters. “I…killed one of your officers.” She expected an outburst, an interrogation, but the Conqueror said nothing, waited expectantly. “A watch captain at the garrison named Callisto. She was temperamental and cruel.” Again she looked to the Conqueror for a response, met unreadable eyes, forged ahead. “Everyone feared her, even her own troops. Attracting her attention was a sure way to meet a horrible fate. Like my sister.” A lump closed her throat; she swallowed several times before she could clear it to speak. “She had a beautiful way of saying what was on her mind.”
“Like you?”
The question startled her. She peered up at the face, trying to read Xena’s thoughts. “Yeah, I could be opinionated, but I wasn’t the one who drew Callisto’s eye.” Her shuddering voice betrayed her. “I came home from the fields one day to find her tied to the well, a hole where her tongue used to be. We had to do something. Quietly I began to talk to the townsfolk, encourage them to—”
“Revolt?”
Eyebrows knitted. “Write a letter of petition. I’d heard all sorts of stories about you. That in spite your harshness, you were fair. I thought if you knew what your officers were doing, you would put a stop to it. I would write it, get the townspeople to sign it—”
The cascade of words dried up in her throat. When she struggled to start again, the Conqueror pressed her goblet of wine into her hand. She peered into its plum depths, gave in with a long gulp. Absent was the usual bite of vinegar, coating her throat instead with cloying sweetness. She licked her lips, found the goblet more than half drained. Embarrassed, she refilled it before continuing.
“Most of the villagers refused to rally behind a peasant woman. Only after my husband put his name on the letter would they add their marks. He supported the letter, of course. The more people looked to him as the writer of that letter, the more he began to talk like it was his idea. I didn’t mind, really. It wasn’t about taking credit, so I didn’t argue. When Callisto found out about the letter—”
“She killed him.” That the Conqueror said it so matter-of-factly reopened old aches long thought to be healed. Brutally she clamped down on her feelings, cauterized them with other memories.
“I confronted her alone outside the camp that night. I wish I could say we met by luck or fate, that I hadn’t been waiting in the woods when she came out to the latrines to relieve herself. That I didn’t mean to have a knife in my hand. That I planned to meet her face to face as a citizen and just talk to her, ask her to explain how she could so casually end a life. But the truth is, I was there, and armed, and when the Fates brought her to me, I couldn’t convince myself that talk would change or stop her.”
She trailed off again, her mind on the stench, the taunting laughter, the wet blade.
“Was she your first?”
Her head bobbed dully. “I told my parents what I’d done, planned to turn myself in, but they convinced me that your soldiers would execute the entire family for my crime, after what happened to my sister. We left in darkness, told no one where we were going. But everything was different after that. Their looks, their silence. I left the next summer, came back to Poteidaea. It was burned to the ground. Crucifixes dotted the isthmus from shore to shore. Every cow, sheep, pig, goat, and chicken lay slaughtered, every building reduced to ash. No survivors.” Her stomach convulsed at the memory.
The soft voice intruded. “Why do you think I came to Poteidaia?”
A shrug. “I’ve asked myself that so many times. I told myself something must have happened over the winter. Some say the town couldn’t pay its yearly grain tithe. Or maybe it was another of your officers running amok. Or it could have been an accident.”
Blue eyes bored through her. “You don’t believe that, do you?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t know. I was afraid…it was a warning to those who defy your rule.”
The Conqueror reclined against the pillows, propped a long arm carefully on her robed knee. “Yes.”
The gladiator went still, the knot in her throat suddenly too big to swallow. Fingers tightened around the weapon in her hand, threatened to snap either wood or bone.
The Conqueror studied her with half-lidded eyes. “What are you waiting for? This is why you’re here, isn’t it? For revenge?”
Her head swam with emotion. “What?”
“Why Caesar sent you. To kill me. To avenge Poteidaia. What are you waiting for? You got your answer. I ordered the destruction of your home, the execution of your friends. Now it should be easy.”
The gladiator shook her head, thoroughly shaken. “I—I didn’t—why?”
“Does it matter? They’re dead. Now’s your chance.”
“It matters!”
“Did it matter why Callisto killed your husband? You took your vengeance on her.”
“And paid for it with my soul!” She struggled to lower her voice. “When I took her life, a part of me died and a part of her took hold. I’ve killed so many since then, too many to count. I told myself I killed her for some greater good, that I was doing it to save Poteidaia. Now you’re saying their deaths are my doing, too. So yes, it matters. Was it worth slaughtering an entire village just to teach me a lesson?”
She held up a hand, silencing the trembling gladiator. “A warlord named Draco appeared over the winter, made a name for himself raiding villages in the valleys west of Poteidaia. My scouts reported men flocking to his camps in the hundreds, even thousands. With enough food and money he could march on Amphipolis. I could have pulled the First Army from Macedonia, chased him around Greece until I hemmed him in and forced a battle. Of course, dozens of villages would be caught in his rampage, never mind the sheer stupidity of leaving Greece’s northern borders undefended against Rome or the Gauls. Or…I could remove the food and money and strike fear in the hearts of his men in one blow. After that one night of fire and crucifixion, Draco’s army evaporated. That one act of brutality bought years of peace and prosperity. It had nothing to do with you. Their murders are not yours to bear. They’re mine.”
She stood speechless, struck by the grim conviction of her owner, slowly sank down to the floor, considering her explanation. Her confession. Eyes fell to the chobo in her hand. “I almost took a swing at you. You wanted me to. For them.”
Xena looked away.
She thought about that, about this hidden side to her owner, the one that admitted feeling guilt for the suffering she’d caused. And few people in Greece had caused as much suffering as the Conqueror. She took a deep breath, met pinched eyes with an understanding that ran deeper than most could fathom. “Don’t look to me to punish you for your crimes. You’ll just have to do your best to set things right, starting tomorrow with Queen Terreis.”
She awoke as the sky grew light, startled she’d slept so deeply. Instantly her eyes darted to the cot near the fireplace.
Empty. She’d jumped to her feet before noticing the lump underneath, the tangle of golden hair buried under a pillow. The woman still slept, her knees pulled up tight against her chest, long from waking by the sound of her breathing. She’d fallen asleep leaning against the bed; it had taken some convincing to get her to go lay on the cot. The night dragged on with the sound of her tossing until the Conqueror dozed off. Either the Leopard had been very quiet when she moved, or her presence hadn’t set off the warrior’s cautious senses. She’d have to remember that.
She considered waking her, but it was early still, and she needed to think. She threw on a practice tunic and headed up, sword in hand, to the roof. From there she could see much of the palace and had an unobstructed view of the unborn sunrise. And she could practice away from prying eyes.
Apollo’s chariot raced into the sky when she returned to her chambers. She crept in quietly to crouch low by the cot, reached out to touch a shoulder, thought better of it. “Parda?” When she didn’t stir, the woman tried again, louder. “Gabrielle?”
The slave jerked, whipped around. Quickly she clambered to her feet, struggling to blink the sleep out of her eyes.
“I need you to attend to me today. Vidalis is sending water boys to heat the bath and bring up breakfast. I need to get cleaned up. So do you. Remember your tasting duties, stay close, do as I command without question. Above all, listen. Will you do that?”
Strange that she turned the order into a question. Stranger still that the willful thing nodded without hesitation. Had to be the sleepiness dulling her contrariness. Long arms peeled the sweat-soaked tunic from her frame, tossed it to the body slave as she crossed the spacious chamber.
As she drew the threadbare robe over broad shoulders she caught the Leopard studying her, felt a strange flutter of nervousness. Did those young eyes see too many scars, a relief map of the warrior’s past mistakes? Or did they see too few, think she let others do her fighting for her? Was her physique going soft with age and time away from the battlefield? When she glanced up again, the expression was carefully tucked away. Her moment of self-consciousness turned raw. Gods, what idiocy, to care what a lowly slave thought of the Destroyer of Nations.
Yet her thoughts kept returning to that look, and she forced herself to admit that she did care. Not because the woman had any say in the Conqueror’s life, but because she spoke last night with such honesty about that life, and what it meant to her.
Foolishness, all her talk of respect and honor and equality. Words a younger Xena once spouted when she led the defense of Amphipolis. Words that convinced her to trust a handsome young Caesar. Words she eradicated from her soul to make her name feared far to the east and north. Words she used to gain trust, land, and power once in Greece again. Words that ate at her as she grew older, looking back on a life long on action and short on meaning.
The slave followed her into the antechamber, stopped at the sight of innumerable silks, linens, and leathers neatly arranged on shelves and hooks. Embarrassed, she rifled through her clothes quickly. “It’s Vidalis. He thinks the ruler of Greece should have an expansive wardrobe.” She pulled out a long white dress trimmed in gold, held it up to her lean frame. “A gift from the land of the Pharaohs. It’ll do.”
A quiet knock at the door. She looked to her slave, eyes flicking that way expectantly, watched her hurry out of sight. Anxiously she listened for trouble. The gladiator seemed to know nothing but fighting, certainly couldn’t manage the basic art of conversation. Her interactions with the rest of the Conqueror’s subjects always seemed to end in a body count.
When the first water boy hurried in, she exhaled, relieved.
A tray of food came next. Without prompting the slave examined the contents, carefully ate a bit of each one and sipped the wine, her eyes on the Conqueror, before bringing over a small bowl of bread and berries and a goblet of wine. A small smile crept onto Xena’s lips.
“Ah, Conqueror! And your new body slave. How nice.”
Vidalis’s tone spoke volumes otherwise as he flitted between scurrying boys, his girth hardly slowing him down. His head tilted toward the empty cot in the entry way. “I’ll have that removed today. Heartbreaking, losing Niklos. ‘Tis a shame he won’t be attending you during this most important visit.” The slave didn’t miss the barb, bristled. He didn’t spare her a glance. “I brought the articles you ordered.” He produced a long Roman-style white tunic, held it up against the fair slave. “I’d have to see it on her mannish frame to gauge the fit—”
The warrior took it from him before the wildcat decided to remove his hands. “I’m sure it’s fine. And be careful what you call her frame. It’s not so different from mine.”
“My apologies, Conqueror. She is uncommonly healthy, from strong peasant stock.” He proffered a golden corded belt and gold shoulder clasps for the long tunic; the warrior reached more curiously for the polished gold collar. Under examination the ring was relatively thin and light, more for decoration than practicality in spite of the half-ring anchor in the front and the locking clasp in the back. More importantly it was loose and smooth, would not cut or chafe the delicate skin it was forged for. She smiled at the headservant. “This is exquisite.”
He beamed at the rare compliment. “Persian design. Clean, elegant, functional. I see the bearer doesn’t appreciate your kindness.”
With the man’s upturned look of distain she realized the Leopard had backed away from them both. Well, she expected a fight. She wouldn’t be disappointed. “Thank you, Vidalis. The key?”
He held up a dark leather cord upon which the tiny golden key dangled and placed it in her palm. He noted the fine Egyptian robes she held. “May I suggest your snake armlet with that? I can help you with the gold-braided wig before your audience today.”
“Fine,” she called over her shoulder, avoiding a waterboy as she made her way toward the bath. “Tell them that’s enough water.”
“As you wish. The delegates will be in the hall within a candlemark. Dinner will be roast duck served in your private courtyard. May I be of any other service to you, Conqueror?”
“Yes. Send up Captain Bellerophon in half a candlemark, not before. I don’t want to be disturbed during my bath. That will be all.”
“By your will.” He bowed deeply as he backed out of the room, pulling the double doors shut behind him.
The gladiator stood rooted, glaring after the man. The Conqueror chuckled. “He’s very good at what he does, if a little odd. You get used to it. Come, help me bathe.”
The bath was business, not pleasure, a quick thorough cleansing without conversation. The gladiator helped her dry off and don the revealing dress. To her credit the slave kept her wits about her this time, didn’t let her eyes wander over the curves of her owner…much. Once the Conqueror was dressed she sent the slave to scrub herself clean while she added the finishing touches.
She handed the fighter a cloth to dry herself as she stepped out, waited until she was done to approach her back. Long nimble fingers gently applied the sharp-smelling salve—the same one she’d used on the gladiator the first day on the boat—to old and new scars lacing her shoulders and back and arms. “Badges of pride aside, this will fade those marks with regular use. I keep it on the stand here. Use it once a day and after every bath.” As she set the clay pot back down, her fingers brushed the slave’s tan tunic before scooping up the new white one. “Where did you get that?”
The striped shoulders stiffened. “A gift.”
That there was more to the story was clear. That the gladiator didn’t want to explain was also clear. The Conqueror didn’t like secrets. She held back her questions, decided to wait and see if her slave would ever offer a better answer.
With a little help she slipped the white tunic over the golden head, pinned the clasps on the shoulders. It occurred to her how lovely it would look to release one of those clasps, bare one small firm breast for her guests to admire, though the thought of any of them taking an interest in her more womanly features stirred the acid in her stomach. Everything of yours is mine.
She tore her eyes away before the gladiator saw the look, focused her gaze on the golden cord she tied around the firm abdomen until the vision passed. Since her last campaign more than a year ago, her infamous urges had gone curiously missing. That they should rear up now, with this ruined piece of flesh and soul to break the fast, struck her as cruel irony. Those conquered in the bedchamber were rarely much fun afterwards, too broken or frightened or hateful to let themselves feel pleasure again. That kind of unpredictability coupled with this one’s skills…no, she’d find another outlet for her libido.
When she held up the collar, the Leopard stepped back. Refusal sparked instant anger. “Come here.”
Green eyes flared. “Why? I didn’t run last night.”
The Conqueror had to remind herself the slave had worn no collar since her last fight. How to make her understand? “It’s a symbol. It shows the world you belong to me, that you are under my protection. A wrong against you is a wrong against me. Every slave in this palace wears a collar. Do you think it so distasteful to be owned by me?”
“To be owned at all, yes.”
“And yet here you are. But I’m not unreasonable. I offer you a choice. This, or the heavy restraints you wore into Corinth. I warn you, you’ll still be expected to perform your tasks either way.”
She watched her words burrow into that bright mind, stubbornness warring with practicality. The slave thrust her chin up in a gesture of willful pride, let her lock the ring around her neck.
“Thank you.” She genuinely appreciated the gladiator’s assent, pressured though it was. In truth, she looked forward to having her near all day.
A knock on the door dampened her enthusiasm.
“If it’s Captain Bellerophon, see him in. And Parda?”
The slave turned, halfway to the door.
“Let’s try to get through today without bloodshed, shall we?”
The Leopard’s mouth drew into a thin line.
When she returned from the entryway, the captain followed. The black eyes were almost gone, but judging by the stiff face, he held a low opinion of the slave’s new duties.
“You sent for me, Conqueror?”
“Macon is under arrest.”
“The jailer? What has he done?” Immediately he glanced at the gladiator suspiciously.
“Send a detail to relieve the guards I left there last night, and find me a new jailer. And let me know when Macon wakes up. I want to ask him a few questions.”
Eyes darted between owner and slave. His mouth opened as if to speak, then closed abruptly to inhale through perfect teeth. “By your will.” He bowed crisply and left.
The Conqueror exhaled. Until that man got over his mistrust of the gladiator, she would keep her very close indeed. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the Leopard staring at the door, her face shadowed by some dark instinct that made her green eyes practically glow with heat. Even in a simple Roman tunic, the woman radiated predator.
“You look—” stunning, her mind interjected, but she caught herself. “Intimidating, as a Roman gladiator should.”
The Leopard’s jaw clenched, her distaste plain. She smiled apologetically. “I know. You’re Greek. Just pretend, will you? The delegates we meet today are very fond of Romans.”
She stood some distance from the Conqueror, alone and unobtrusive against a wall next to a silver amphora of wine. Xena and her guests reclined lazily on long dining couches, plucking from a low table fresh fruits, nuts, savory and sweet breads, cheeses, fish, quail, boar, and venison. Given the rare delicacies spread around the table, an onlooker might have thought the Conqueror entertained Caesar himself, not a lowly delegate from Egypt.
She dined and conversed with the Egyptians casually, her plate almost untouched. When the slave thought about it, the Conqueror always had such morsels available to her, though she hardly ever partook of them. Both times she’d been to the Conqueror’s chambers, her owner prepared a plate of food only to have her taster eat more than she did. How much fruit and cheese and dried meat spoiled on those sumptuous trays?
The snap of fingers jerked her mind back to the table, to the feast and those who dined upon it. The Conqueror held out her hand, her empty goblet waiting expectantly. As she obediently filled the goblet, the emissary at the far end of the table interrupted his own near constant chatter. “Ah, excellent. I would indulge in more of your wonderful nectar as well.”
The Leopard glanced at her owner. At the nod she walked around the table to refill his drink.
His eyes doubled back to her for a second glance, flicked down and up her body like the twin forks of an asp’s tongue. Her skin crawled, flushed hot as if burned. He looked away, but not before a smile crept onto his olive features. She returned to her station but couldn’t help watching out of the corner of her eye, wary of his interest.
Apparently the Conqueror noticed too, for when he finished his tale, she edged forward and grinned conspiratorially. “You like her, Amun.”
It was more statement than question. He paused only a heartbeat, smiled broadly. “She is indeed a vision. That pale hair is unusual, surely passed down from great Alexander himself. Personally I find her a bit…gamey…for my tastes. But I accept your offer, if it is indeed an offer.”
The grin turned to ice on her lips. “It’s not. I’m sure you’ll find other companionship more to your liking. Her skills lie…elsewhere.” The Conqueror’s gaze drifted from the emissary to the slave, and the Leopard could swear she saw some heat flicker beneath those hard blue eyes.
At the silent exchange Amun’s eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise. “By Horus, this isn’t the same slave we saw brawling in the courtyard, is it? She looks so civilized when she’s clean. Well trained, too.”
The Conqueror fixed him with a dangerous stare.
He brightened. “Which reminds me. We bring from noble Cleopatra a gift, a symbol of her gratitude as your humble servant.”
At a glance, the military officer seated beside him rose from the table to open the dining hall doors. Just beyond waited two Egyptian guards, and between them a figure shrouded all in white.
“Conqueror. I give you Khepri.”
The figure came to life, raised the white veil to reveal a beautiful young face, a firm young body that began to sway in time with a broken and exotic rhythm.
Slow sinuous movement stole the gladiator’s gaze, held her captive as each limb shifted with a will of its own. The boneless gyrations struck her as unnatural, inhuman, primal. Every part of her moved in different directions at once. Everything but her eyes, locked on the woman at the head of the banquet.
She peered at her owner, noted the lazy posture, the shuddered eyes, the subtle frown. Her taut body exuded displeasure at this turn of events. No, not exactly displeasure. The Conqueror would not bother concealing anger. Her scowl masked something else, some other trouble churning within.
A wave of nausea wrenched at the gladiator’s stomach, the same sensation that filled her when Amun’s eyes raked over her. Now she could see the quick shallow rise and fall of the Conqueror’s chest, the slightly parted lips, the hand gripping the armrest just a little too hard. She knew that look from others, just never from the Conqueror.
Hunger.
Slowly the dancer closed the distance between them. She writhed sensuously, every arch of her back an offering of her breasts, every turn out of the leg and thrust of the hip an invitation to explore deeper mysteries. Even her arms moved as if guided by an invisible lover, caressing without touching, reaching and drawing in to her tantalizing bronze skin.
The Conqueror had eyes for no one else.
Warily the slave took small steps toward the warrior, her eyes upon the Egyptians in the room. Even they seemed entranced by the dancer, all but two. The military advisor studied the Conqueror. The delegate Amun studied her.
She looked away quickly, unsure what the Conqueror’s punishment would be for looking one of her guests in the eye. But old defiance reared up, that he should stare at her as if she already lay in his bed. She met his gaze again, made clear by her expression that he would not find her companionship pleasurable.
He grinned. Not the charming easy smile that he smeared on for the Conqueror, but a gash of teeth and gums stretched wide and ravenous.
Even without taking her eyes from him, she took in the silver platter of duck, the burning candelabras, the jade dragon centerpiece, the polished serving spoon, all perfectly acceptable for caving in his skull.
Something shifted in the air. The Conqueror hadn’t moved, but Captain Bellerophon leaned over her shoulder to whisper in her ear, and the expression on her face shifted from shadowy desire to frozen fury. The dancer stood within two paces of her and closing, arching back to close in for a touch—
The Conqueror held up a hand. The drumming died. The performer paused, her face upside down before the Conqueror, her whole being quivering slightly with hard breaths.
“I accept my servant Cleopatra’s gift. Vidalis, escort her to the slave quarters.” With a flick of her wrist she dismissed the woman, turned back to the table without another thought. “Emissary, an excellent conclusion to dinner. Shall we retire during the heat of the day? We’ll speak again later; I’m eager to hear more of Cleopatra’s wish to renegotiate Egypt’s tribute.”
She rose without waiting for a reply, swept past the surprised Khepri and Vidalis and out of the hall, the captain close behind.
The slave stood frozen, unsure. Was she meant to follow and serve, or stay to watch and listen? She looked to Vidalis for direction, but he was fascinated by the Egyptian dancer who stared hungrily after the retreating back of the Conqueror. As he led her away Khepri locked eyes with her, hostile challenge leaving her bewildered.
A murmur reached her ears, muttering between soldier and diplomat in the foreign tongue they dared not speak before the Conqueror. Her stare settled on them, unable to tear her attention away from the condescending smiles and quiet chuckles.
Again the emissary met her gaze, this time far more inviting, gesturing for her to come nearer as some long-lost uncle would a skittish child. When she didn’t move he raised his goblet, waiting patiently. Only slowly did her feet move, not sure how her owner would have her respond. She’d already been commanded to fill the man’s cup once; cautiously she did so again.
He pitched his voice low enough that only she and the commander beside him could hear, his Latin overly enunciated. “Your old dominus is glad you fare well. However, he would have you remember your obligations.”
Her heart stopped.
Many moments seemed to pass before she felt its heavy thump push sluggish fluid through her veins. Many more before she felt her lungs hitch, aching for breath. Dimly she became aware of his hand on her arm, jerked it free as if burned. Sour essence of grape sloshed out, stained her white tunic the color of fresh angry bruise.
“His eyes are upon you, Parda, here more than ever. Strike sure and true. Someone eagerly awaits your return.”
She faltered back, uneasy at the smiling ghost before her. Wide eyes tore themselves away, raked the room. Other than the delegation, only a servant watched from the kitchen. Had the woman heard? Had she seen?
Numb fingers set the amphora on the table before it slipped out of their grasp. She turned, willing one foot in front of the other, wherever they might take her away from his shallow smile.
The Conqueror blazed across the courtyard, her long strides forcing Bellerophon to jog to keep up. His expression betrayed him; his life hung in the balance of the next few moments.
He followed her into the prison, directly to the open cell door where two soldiers stood like pillars of salt. Roughly she shoved one aside, her lips curled in disgust at what she knew awaited her.
Macon lay slumped against the bars of the cell, grey and still. She crouched down beside the corpse, turned his chin to examine the bloody lump on the side of his head.
“Conqueror…” The captain squatted down beside her, his voice low and soft. “Who did this? What happened here last night?”
Her stomach clenched, forced sour into her throat. If she told him, a certain gladiator would decorate a cross by sundown. A small part of her wanted the same; Macon was no angel, but he was loyal. Not that the Leopard meant to kill him. Had she?
It didn’t matter. No one in the palace, not even Macon, knew the identity of the prisoner. Telling Bellerophon about the fight last night might lead to questions she didn’t want to answer, could ruin her only chance to make peace with the Amazons.
She lifted a limp arm to rearrange it across his chest. A shadow crossed her features. “Who found him?”
Bellerophon stood. “I did, Conqueror, when you sent me down to change the detail.”
She nodded, bent closer to examine the wound. She took a deep breath, caught a whiff of metal blood and bitterness. She frowned, stood abruptly.
“Take him to Ares’ temple. Arrange a soldier’s funeral. A quiet one. Put his ashes in the hall of warriors.” Bellerophon opened his mouth to argue, but the Conqueror cut him off. “Full honors, Captain. He died serving me faithfully.”
He saluted. “By your will.” At his gesture the soldiers hauled the body away.
She listened until she could no longer hear their footsteps, a very long time with her acute senses. Quietly she stole down the dim hallway, slid a key hidden in the folds of her robes into the lock of one very solid door.
The prisoner sat exactly as she did the night before, shoulders stretched at extreme angles, head down and hidden under stringy curls. If the Amazon was aware of the Conqueror’s presence, she showed no sign. Cautiously the warrior approached, wary of deception, took a fistful of copper hair and pulled the head up to rouse her. Deep puckered scars crossed her cheeks, nose, forehead, chin…she barely recognized the woman. A cruel comment died in her throat. “Still with us, Terreis?”
One eye cracked open, swiveled around in its socket before settling on the Conqueror. Dry split lips parted, rough tongue trying to shape words. “S-still.”
She sighed, left the cell, returned with a bucket of water, food, and manacles. One by one she released the Amazon’s wrists, ready for fists or claws to lash out. The bony limbs hung limp, unresisting. Once the manacles were secure she relaxed, offered a ladle of water to parched lips. The woman sputtered between greedy sips, took the proffered bread roll, though she needed help to lift it to her mouth.
“Who did this to you?”
One eyelid drooped, whether from swelling or scarring she couldn’t tell. The other eye made up for it, blazed with green heat that burned down to a single coal of rage. “You already know.”
The emotion in those three words dredged up old responses. She shoved them down, more desperate for answers. “I don’t. I promised you wouldn’t be harmed, didn’t I? Who did this?”
“Your torturer.”
She shook her head solemnly. “I’m the Conqueror. I don’t need a torturer.”
The prisoner glared at her, decided to play along. “A man. Hid his face behind a mask. Blue eyes.”
Dark suspicions swirled in her mind. “Did he say anything?”
“He said my face offended you. Is that true? Perhaps it reminds you of my lands you took under treaty, my sisters you sold into slavery.”
“You broke that treaty by sending assassins against me.”
“Never. Amazons confront their enemies, not backstab them.”
“I have a five-inch scar that says otherwise.”
“Then she was no sister of mine.”
The Conqueror sighed, unwilling to rehash old interrogations. “You’ve been in this cell a long time, Terreis, long enough to reconsider your position on this argument.”
“I can’t change the truth, Xena. Had I known what you would do to my people, I would have challenged you myself.” Her faint voice shook with more than just anger for her people. Those knife wounds cut deep, all the way down to a disfigured soul.
“The Terreis I remember ruled her tribe through wisdom and negotiation. You’re neither a warrior nor a killer.”
“The worse for my sisters. Perhaps they would still be alive, and Grecian soil would not be so drunk with their blood.”
The Conqueror blinked, the sour taste rising up again that she could not swallow away. She remembered the Queen as she was when they met, fiercely protective of her people, ridiculously optimistic about her ability to make the Conqueror see the error of her ways. Even enraged as the Conqueror was after the attempt on her life by an Amazon, she still marveled at the Queen’s willingness to hand herself over to the Conqueror if it meant sparing her sisters. She saw no trace of that woman in the thing that looked at her now.
A thing that held her responsible for its creation. Her tactical experience said kill her now, quietly, before anyone could make the situation worse by telling the Amazons of her abuse. But was a dead Amazon queen truly better than a damaged one? Both would incite the Amazon Nation. Only one could be controlled by the Conqueror.
She rose with a sigh. “I never wanted to hurt you. But if you want a challenge, you’ll get one. Not against me. If you win the match, you get out of this cell. Those…” the prisoner jerked away from a brush against her cheek, “…will be tended to. You’ll get real food. And if you behave, we can discuss…other requests.”
The good eye wandered, considering her offer. “And if I lose?”
The warrior thought of the Amazon’s opponent, allowed herself a knowing smile. “You won’t.”
She locked the cell door and hurried back across the courtyard, mind racing. Her thoughts focused so intently on the planning of the match that she almost didn’t hear Vidalis calling to her.
He gasped with the effort of catching up with her. “Conqueror, she’s quite impressive. Elegant, charming, graceful, and very, ah, flexible…I can see why you find her so interesting.”
“Yes, she’ll need an outfit—what?”
“Of course, I’ll make sure she is dressed appropriately when she arrives after dinner tonight.” He looked at her expectantly. When she stared at him, clearly not comprehending, he cleared his throat. “The dancer?”
“What? No.” She realigned her thoughts, shook her head even more emphatically. “No.”
“Conqueror? I thought you were interested in—you haven’t wanted any companionship since your return—” He caught himself as realization dawned, lip curling as if stumbling upon the public toilets. “Forgive me. When you tire of her, the dancer will be waiting for you.”
She felt even more lost. “Tire of who?”
“Your Roman. The gladiator?”
“Tire of… No. No, we—” She stopped, processing his assumption. “You’re right. Perhaps I could use a change of pace.”
He brightened. “As you wish. Perhaps she can perform for us at dinner tonight.”
She shook her head, amazed at his persistence. “I need fighting leathers for a woman, an Amazon. They need to cover every inch of skin from head to toe. Everything. How long will it take you to make something?”
He considered. “Two days, if it’s urgent.”
“It is. Get on it. And send my body slave up to my chambers.”
He paused, confused. “Conqueror, wasn’t she with you?”
“No, I left her in the dining hall.”
“Begging the Conqueror’s pardon, but the dining hall was empty when I returned. I thought she followed you.”
A wave of queasiness hit, sharp in the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, forced her face to remain still. “Then I’m sure she’s in my chambers already. Please make arrangements for that outfit as soon as possible.”
She strode away, her excitement over the coming match waning with the absence of the primary player. The Leopard could not…would not have gone far. She hurried up to the royal bedchambers in the vain hope that the woman ended up there. The Fates were not so kind. She visited the infirmary, then the slaves’ quarters, then the dining hall, then back to the cell block, growing more concerned with each unproductive stop. Her thoughts traveled to darker places. She prowled the guest wing, wondering if the emissary’s attention toward her body slave had earned him a deadly afternoon visit.
No cries of alarm, no blood, no signs of the Leopard’s passage. She didn’t dare ask if any of the servants or slaves had seen her. Which would be worse, gossip that the Conqueror lost a slave, or she worried about her? Her long legs picked up speed, carried her faster than was proper through the labyrinth of halls. What if she somehow slipped out of the palace? Every moment spent looking and not sounding the alarm put her further away. But surely someone would notice her, a fair-haired Roman woman with a slave collar and a fighter’s physique.
The barracks. Would she be stupid enough—or resentful enough—to go there? Whether she went there intentionally or not, her presence would no doubt lead to trouble. The gladiator was a lightning rod for it.
“Joxer,” she growled, spying him standing in the hallway ahead. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I need you to find the Leopard—”
He stood quiet and still. She tracked his gaze into a private colonnaded courtyard. Shaded from the sun by the dense leaves of alders and poplars, a little girl ran in circles on the mossy cobbles, making nonsense noises to herself and swinging and bouncing a carved figurine in her hand while a woman sewed at a bench nearby.
“Hey, snap out of it, soldier. Let’s go.”
He lay a hand on her arm as she turned away. Her head snapped up at the impudence, ready to punch his teeth in if he didn’t remove the offending limb. He pointed. Not at the girl. Near the side entrance to the atrium, hidden in the shadow of the colonnade stood her gladiator, still as a statue. Neither the girl nor the woman seemed to notice the observer. The same could not be said for the Leopard; the strangest look gripped her face, her eyes fixed on the girl like a panther tracking a meal.
“What is she—how did you find her?”
“I didn’t. She just appeared.”
The Conqueror let out a pent-up breath. She circled around, entering the courtyard through the side door, careful not to arouse the attention of the girl or woman. Much closer now, she noted her strained pale face, her eyes on the girl but her mind a thousand leagues away.
Willing the hammering of her heart to slow, she forced a gentle calm into her being, sought the same stillness the slave’s escort was so good at cultivating, kept her voice low and non-threatening. “What are you doing here?”
For a long moment the animal beside her trembled, consumed by some struggle.
“Hey,” she breathed, stepping in front of her and blocking her view.
She blinked. When she finally raised her eyes, the Conqueror saw a woman she’d only glimpsed before, a living feeling breathing person who acknowledged hurt, who looked at her with such rawness her chest ached. “Why did you bring me here?”
Not the response she expected. She smiled to ease the sting of her words. “I own you. This is my home. Where else would I bring you?”
“Why? Why did you buy me? Why did you come to Rome? Why did we ever have to meet? There was a time I dreamt of nothing else. Why now? After everything that’s happened, why now?”
The Conqueror, shook her head, at a loss. “Why ask these questions? The Fates brought you to me. We can’t change it now, only make the best of it. You said I’d have to do my best to set things right, didn’t you? Well I am, and I need your help.” She lifted the gladiator’s chin, drew her drifting attention from the courtyard. “Are you listening?” The Leopard nodded. “Good. Come on. You have a match to lose.”