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"You may well have bought yourself a dead woman, Maximus.” The voice of an elderly man brought me out of my state of unconsciousness, barely. My first instinct at the unfamiliar sound was to open my eyes, and reach for whatever would serve me for a weapon. But I found that my body would not respond to my will, and any effort to make it sent fiery pain to every wound that it harbored. For a brief moment, I listened to what sounded like two men, as they moved around whatever room I had been taken to. It was a quiet place; there were no sounds or smells from beasts or the inhabitants of the holding pens below the arena floor. The fragrance of healing herbs I knew not the names of wafted over me, carried on the warmth of the blaze somewhere beyond the pallet where I lay.“Yes, I know. But she's strong. It is the rare person, and a woman at that, that can live through what she did yesterday. And I know your physician will do his best.” The other man called Maximus, was younger, his voice, a silk garment dragged over gravel, gave him away. A voice that could lull a baby to sleep, or a very wounded warrior.
“You have bought a new enemy as well. He won't take the sale of her to you, well.”
“He'd have her back in the ring, before she's ever able to heal. And only the gods know what he would make her fight next. The man who had her was cruel enough. She's better off here, or dead. And I will repay you, Gracchus, if that is your worry, whether she lives, or not.” Gracchus, the elder of the two, was quiet for a short time. Then he sighed as he answered.
“You know I trust you. It is not the money. Or the purchase of this woman. It's the worry I feel for you. I love you like a son. And Lucilla will be most angry that I allowed you to put yourself in any danger.” Both chuckled at that last. I must have made some sound, or an indication that I was back in the world of the living, for one of them, I could not discern which, laid a hand lightly on my brow, and then touched a cup containing fresh, sweet water to my mouth. Most of the liquid spilled over my chin and neck and into my hair, but a little made it past my dry lips and teeth, down my throat, while a hand held my head up just enough to keep me from choking. After, I let the comfort of deep sleep take me again, and did not wake for some time.
When my eyes adjusted to the low light of the chamber I knew immediately to be servants’ quarters, there was only a boy of perhaps fifteen winters with me. His head was bowed over a parchment scroll, studying it. His eyes roved line by line, mouth forming silent words. He was dressed in a tunic of bright saffron; laurel leaves sewn in bronze thread framed the bottom hem and the neck of the garment. It was not long, but more in the fashion of that my own people wore, with woolen breeches underneath, to cover his legs. At his waist, on the braided horsehair belt that no doubt kept the leggings from slipping, hung a smallish Roman sword. A boy’s sword. The closed-toed sandals on his feet tapped nervously on the wooden floor, and I was aware that was what had probably stirred me from my slumber, in which I had dreamt of running horses, and the land of my birth.
The youth glanced at me, and seeing that I was awake, smiled gently. I did not return it, but neither did I frown or glare, only kept my features blank. He put his scroll down, and adjusting the sword at his belt, stood and padded quietly to me. Although I knew were I standing, I would tower head and shoulders over this boy, he seemed not to fear me, and I found myself liking him, though we had not exchanged more than a gaze between us. He took the liberty of seating himself on the edge of my bed, and reached for the cup of water on a small bench beside my head. I pulled myself up, a little, as I was very weak, and my wounds too fresh to really make movement possible, but I had to start to, or I would not heal properly, I knew. I was naked beneath the light blanket that covered me, and it was my chest I most conscious of. I reached slowly for the vessel, with my arm that had not almost been cleaved, and he gave me it, watching with frank, curious eyes as I sipped from it. He was not ogling me because of my gender, but because of my status within my sex. I wondered if he had ever been so close to a gladiator, let alone a female fighter. I stared back at him, wondering what parents would be so trusting as to leave him to watch over me. He took the bronze drinking utensil back when I finished, and swept a judgmental gaze over the room.
It was a plain place, but it was clean. The walls were of sun baked clay, with no adornment inside or out, save a small window on either side of the door, that allowed the soft light of the afternoon sun to filter in, and help the cheery blaze of the hearth brighten the tiny room. Aside from the cot where I lay, the table behind me, and the chair the boy had previously occupied, it was barren. The floor, made of interlocking wooden slats, was swept free of dirt and debris from the yard. The scent of plants used to medicate the deep cuts that laced my body still hung in the air.
“Not very big, is it?” He was looking to me, again. I shook my head. He smiled again, pleased that I understood the Roman tongue. He glanced at the cup in his hand, and then beyond me. "Are you hungry?"
I was famished, and painfully aware of it, when the mere mention of the opportunity to diminish the ache triggered the voices in my stomach, they woke and growled in anticipation. I had no idea how long I had been in this place, other than the healing of those wounds that had not been bound or sewn told me at least two days. I was sure it had been that long since I had eaten my last meager meal in the prison cells under the coliseum. It had been little more than a gruel made of thick broth and chunks of meat, I supposed flayed from the carcasses of the animals and perhaps the humans that died above us everyday. What else would they do with all that waste? And such was I valued, that I would be subjected to just enough sustenance to keep me strong and healthy, while the man who owned me sat in luxury and ate the most expensive foods, purchased no doubt, with the money he made from my matches alone.
"Aye, I could eat."
"Does 'aye' mean 'yes'?" It was habit for me to mix my people's tongue with that of the Romans. During my time as a slave, I had met many of my own kind. Some could no longer remember more than bits and pieces of the Celtic speak, and many of us were just learning the Roman way of communicating. As a result, it became a sort of new tongue, and it was used widely by slaves and fighters. I spoke it without thinking, forgetting that it would naturally confuse the boy, who had been trained in the proper vernacular.
"Yes." He got up from his perch at my side, and looking over his shoulder, assured me he would not be too long. He came back with a light meal of apples and dates, and a roasted fowl of some type I did not want, at that point, to know the species of. I was far too hungry to care, and made short work of the food. After, he resumed his studies, and I waited for my meal to carry me back to sleep.
