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"Come on, get up." Sporus ground his knee into the back of the slave who squirmed beneath him like a bug, arms and legs flailing. He tapped the back of the slave’s head with the tip of his wooden sword. “Dead, just that fast. If you can't free yourself from something this simple, how can you hope to survive actual combat?"
"Sporus!" Marcus waved at him from the side of the practice field, then lumbered off as if Sporus should have any idea what he was shouting about. He started to follow, then Marcus pointed in his direction and said something to a man he hadn't seen before. A glance told him this must be the new slave Marcus was excited about.
The slave Sporus had pinned stood next to him, panting. Sporus waved a hand toward the other side of the field. "Go . . . practice. At least you'll be safe fighting a dummy opponent. I hope."
Sporus leaned on his wooden sword and waited until the new slave stopped in front of him. He tried not to let his approval show too much. And he tried not to flinch from the man’s intense, unwavering gaze. Sporus wasn't used to people looking him in the eyes at length, not with that kind of defiance in theirs.
"Well, well, well, what have we here?" Sporus let his gaze travel from the new slave's feet to the top of his head, a head that rose up several inches higher than his own. He walked in a slow circle around him, sizing him up. The hot breeze blew the man's dark hair across his handsome, angular face.
The new slave surprised him by speaking first. "You're Sporus?"
"I am. What's your name, boy?"
The slave's jaw muscles twitched. "Lydon."
"Lydon," he repeated slowly, drawing it out. "Marcus wants me to take you under my wing. Teach you to survive. I hope you won't hold it against me that, despite that order, one day soon I'm likely to be the man who ends your life."
Lydon's nostrils flared. "As long as you don't hold it against me that I'm as likely to be the man who ends yours."
Sporus smiled. He liked this one already. "I'll try not."
Sporus grabbed his shoulder and gave him a shake. "You're sturdy, I'll give you that. The advantage of height. Means nothing if you don't know how to use it. I've seen many a large man bleed out in that arena when they should have dominated. Big can be clumsy."
"I'm not," Lydon snapped.
"Confident. Good. But overconfidence can kill you as sure as clumsiness." Sporus drove his fist between Lydon's arm and torso, turned them both and threw him. An easy move, done too fast for most to counter. Lydon grunted when he hit the ground, and before he could roll away or rise, Sporus pressed the tip of his weapon to the front of Lydon's throat.
Lydon's fingers clawed into the grass at his sides. He didn't put his hands up or look away, but met Sporus' gaze as if they still stood toe to toe. "I wasn't ready."
"Ready?"
"For training. I wasn't expecting that."
Sporus laughed. "Yes, that much is obvious."
When Lydon started to smile along with him, he moved the sword from Lydon's throat and held out his hand. Lydon took it and let Sporus help pull him up.
Sporus clapped him on the shoulder. "No one ever really expects the killing blow. Lesson one."
Sporus shouted for a slave to bring them another sword. He put it in Lydon's hand with a grin. "Now that you're expecting it . . . let's see what you've got."
Lydon stepped back, raised his sword, and lunged.
Lydon's height did prove to be an advantage, as he was not clumsy. He was graceful, like a dancer, but not with the kind of consistency Sporus wanted. He'd get there, if he survived long enough.
He trained Lydon, he taunted him, and sometimes he bought him a drink at the end of a hard day of being thrown under Sporus' sword.
Sporus found himself sounding more and more like Marcus when watching Lydon spar with someone else, shouting commands, shouting disappointments, shouting what he should do right now and what are you thinking?
As Lydon sparred with Phybus, Sporus wanted to wrench Phybus away from him and take his place. Lydon thrust and nearly had him, but Phybus countered and used Lydon's height against him to get him on the ground, wooden knife at his throat.
Sporus groaned, a sound that came out more like a roar, as he grabbed Phybus' shoulders and threw him off to glare down at Lydon.
"You once told me you weren’t clumsy! Then what was that? You didn't even fall well enough to roll out of it. He could have gutted you in the time it took you to hit the ground, Lydon. If this were in the arena, we'd be shoveling up your entrails to feed the lions right now. I—"
Lydon's laughter stopped him short.
"I'm so glad you think your impending brutal, bloody death is funny. Have you taken a leave of your senses?"
"I'm sorry." Lydon took Sporus’ hand and stood, then clasped Sporus' shoulders. "I shouldn't have looked at you. Your face distracted me."
"My face?"
"Your expression . . . I’ve never seen your eyes so round." He chuckled and squeezed Sporus' shoulders. "I'm sorry for laughing."
"You should be angry. Angry at yourself for trying to blame me in any way for your poor performance. You should have defeated him easily, Lydon, not let him get the better of you."
Lydon nodded, his face twitching in an obvious effort to stop smiling.
Sporus smacked Lydon's rear with the flat side of his sword. "Come on, then. I'm going to have to work you twice as hard to make up for that disaster."
"Try not to make that twisted-up face again," Lydon said, "and I'll have you down in no time."
Sporus blocked Lydon's blow easily, and put him on the defensive with a surprise thrust. "If my face twisting up is enough to get you run through, then you're a dead man. Have you looked at the faces in that bloodthirsty crowd when they're screaming for us to kill each other?"
"Theirs aren't as funny as yours." Lydon opened his eyes ridiculously wide in a mockery of what he claimed Sporus had looked like.
Sporus bit his cheek between his teeth to try to keep from smiling. "It won't be funny when you're on the ground bleeding, you impudent whelp."
"Ooh." Lydon pressed his hand against his chest and grunted as if struck, then smiled and raised his sword.
The crowd liked Lydon. He'd fought and won three times, though just barely the last time against another slave Sporus hadn't expected to live long, so he hadn't bothered to remember his name. Lydon seemed to take no pleasure in the killing, another mark in his favor as far as Sporus was concerned.
Finally, the day Sporus dreaded came.
"I'm telling you he's not ready, Marcus."
Marcus helped Coldenus buckle into his armor. "I’ve told you, Sporus, if he wins, the crowd isn't going to call for your death. They love you."
"They shout for the death of fighters they love all the time. But he's not going to beat me. I will win, Marcus, and if they signal me to dispatch him, you'll lose everything you've invested. Not to mention me! All the time I've spent training him." Damn it, why wouldn't the man listen?
"The slate is set, Sporus. It's out of my hands." Marcus waved him off and went to watch the next battle.
"It's in your hands, always. You make the slate, you foolish, pig-headed . . ." There was little point in continuing. Marcus had stomped off, and it was time for Sporus to don his gear. He searched through two different chambers, but Lydon was already walking into the arena, careful to avoid the other contests that were taking place.
When Sporus walked out and approached him, the crowd already shouting in glee at the defeat of someone else a few feet away from them, Lydon lifted his chin. "I don't want to fight you, Sporus."
"Nor I. But what we want doesn't matter here."
"No."
Lydon held out his hand. Sporus glanced at the crowd, wondering how many were focused on them standing there together in the middle of several fighting pairs. He wanted to pull Lydon to him, embrace him and wish him good fighting even if it might mean his own death. He wouldn't do that in front of the crowd, but if they saw some hint of friendship between them, perhaps in the end they would want mercy for whichever one of them fell.
He clasped Lydon's hand, pulled him a little closer and moved to clasp his elbow so their forearms pressed together. "If one of us must die, it will be with honor."
Lydon squeezed his arm and gave a short, sharp nod. Cheering went up, and Sporus pretended it was for their friendship and not the wish to see one bleeding his last before their eyes.
They fought. Lydon did well, but not well enough.
Sporus prayed to the gods that Vesuvius would shake the arena apart and put a stop to what might be about to happen. He prayed for the skies to open up in a deluge enough to flood them out and carry away the bleating crowd crying out for blood. Drown them if need be. Just let him and Lydon both be standing upright when it was over.
He didn't put any real faith in the gods to be anything but capricious and cruel, if they existed at all, but after his prayer, a thought came to him as if whispered inside his mind by someone else. It wasn't an easy thing, after years of struggling to survive and become a champion, to let himself be felled.
But the thought, so unlike his own, deserved heed. Perhaps he’d been given a gift from the gods, despite his cynicism.
The next blow Lydon landed drove Sporus to the ground. The crowd thundered. Sporus, the man all thought would be champion one day, beloved by many, was on his back. He thought he could feel their shouts vibrating up through the ground, trying to lift him up again. Or pull him down. Did it really matter?
Lydon narrowed his eyes and snapped his head quickly once from side to side, clearly aware that Sporus should have stayed on his feet. "What are you doing?" Lydon hissed.
Sporus glanced at the seething masses, their fists raised, their teeth bared as if they were ready to devour them. "Throw your hands in the air! Take advantage of the moment. Give yourself a chance."
"Get up, Sporus," Lydon pleaded, jaw clenched.
"Put your arms up like a champion," he growled. "Make them love you, Lydon. Make them love you . . ." As I do. Sporus clamped his teeth together so hard against saying those words, he tasted blood.
A few interminable seconds passed, the din of the crowd fading behind Sporus' own heartbeat. Then Lydon turned to face them and thrust his hands in the air.
The crowd erupted.
Sporus rose, and when Lydon turned, Sporus attacked, not as forcefully as he would with anyone else, but enough that no one watching might think he held back. He let Lydon gain the upper hand again, twice more, three times, encouraged at the enthusiasm the crowd had stirred up for him.
He had a fleeting thought that encouraging Lydon to win the crowd over was foolish, and he could die because of it. That thought was gone by the time Lydon had begun raising his hands without his prompting to drink in the adulation of those cheering for him.
They were both getting sloppy in their fatigue, but Sporus was battle-hardened and practiced where Lydon was inexperienced. Despite Sporus' best efforts to keep their match going as long as possible, give the crowd time to warm even more toward Lydon, he could no longer pretend to be barely holding his own.
When Lydon's back hit the ground, his eyes closed with his slow exhale. Sporus hovered over him, panting, sweat dripping from his hair. Their eyes met, and Lydon nodded as if to say It's alright. Look up, and do whatever you must.
Sporus couldn't hear the crowd anymore. The roar of his own blood rushing through his veins drowned them out. He dared look at the senator, and willed him, tried with the strength of his own mind, to wrench his arm up and thrust his thumb into the air.
The senator scanned the crowd around him to determine what they wanted most, and raised his hand.
Sporus couldn’t move, was afraid to blink and miss the slightest twitch of the senator’s hand, until the crowd’s cries hit him like a physical blow and jarred him into gasping in a breath.
Thumbs-up. Lydon would not die today. He could have collapsed in relief, but managed to reach down his hand to lift Lydon from the ground. He jerked him forward and spoke in his ear. "Make them yours, Lydon."
Lydon lifted his arms in the air, then put his hand on his chest and bowed, as if in gratitude, thanking the crowd and the senator for his life. Sporus took a few steps away and gestured toward Lydon, encouraging the spectators to revel in him even more.
Marcus was, of course, thrilled that he hadn't lost either of them. He was so happy about the outcome of the games: only two deaths, and new men who hadn't shown much promise, at that. And the crowd taking to Lydon as they had made Marcus see hefty future profits as long as Lydon could keep winning, or at least lose while remaining in the favor of the people so he was spared.
Sporus dropped his armor and weapons for a slave to deal with and walked away while Marcus patted Lydon, blabbering and laughing about his investment.
Sporus' experience and status afforded him a private cell, small though it was, rather than the open barracks most slept in. He and only two others were granted this small measure of prestige. He’d never been more grateful for the privacy.
He went there without a word, though it felt like slinking away to lick his wounds rather than something a champion would do after a triumph.
Not much time had passed when Lydon came, his familiar knock sending Sporus out of his bed to be standing when he opened the door.
Lydon had removed his armor and stood bare to the waist. He spoke as he closed the door behind him. "What you did for me, Sporus, I don't know how to thank you."
Sporus had sparred with Lydon countless times, Given and received bruises. Praised him, taunted him, and shouted at him to try to keep him alive. They drank together, laughed, argued. Sporus gloried in every interaction with Lydon.
Open gratitude, though, was uncomfortable. Anything he couldn’t counter with a blow or a thrust made him uneasy.
"What I did was prudent. If I'd had to kill you, what of all the time spent training you?"
Lydon crossed his arms. "Prudent?"
"I won't have my time wasted, Lydon. And your death would have made so much of it a waste." He turned away as if he might get back into his bed with the man still standing there.
"I see. Then I'm grateful for your prudence."
"Fine." He turned to wave him away and spotted a trickle of red on his arm. "You're bleeding."
"Mmm. Your sword, as with many other things about you, comes with sharp edges." Lydon turned to leave.
"Come here,” Sporus said, sounding more annoyed than he was.
He pushed Lydon to sit on his bed, and used the damp cloth he'd wiped his face with not long before to wipe away the mostly dried blood. "That's going to make a fine bruise in the morning," he said, pressing against a reddened spot of skin below Lydon's ribcage.
"It will if you keep prodding it."
Sporus wiped Lydon's arm clean, then wiped away dirt and sweat from his neck and his jaw. He stared down at Lydon's upturned face, the cloth moving slower on his cheek. "Other injuries I should know about?"
"Nothing more than that. I'll feel them all tomorrow more than now."
"That you will. And I'll be in the same state. That was a good move you made when you caught me on the back with your shield. You should have come in lower, harder, and it might have taken me off my feet. Remember that next time."
Lydon's eyes turned sleepy, as if Sporus’ touch relaxed him. He was tempted to lay his hand against Lydon's cheek to see if his eyes might close completely. Before he could give in to that urge, he pressed Lydon's shoulders. "Turn and let me see."
Lydon twisted his upper body so Sporus could see the fist-sized spots of reddened skin that would ache tomorrow every time Lydon moved.
"Lie down."
Lydon hesitated, but then lay face-down on Sporus' bed. Sporus oiled his hands, knelt next to the bed for better leverage, then pressed oil into Lydon's skin. He took care to press extra hard where he would bruise.
When Lydon groaned, he scoffed. "You'll be grateful tomorrow when you're less stiff. Don't think I'm going to go easy on you just because you're sore. We have to make sure you don't make some of those mistakes again, or you're going to get yourself killed."
"If you hadn't told me to play to the crowd—"
"You'd probably have been spared anyway, so don't give me all the credit. All the women swoon at the sight of you." He worried a reddened spot above the gentle well of Lydon's hip. "And half the men."
"Half? Hmm. I'd have guessed fewer."
"You clearly don't pay enough attention." He slapped Lydon's backside. "Come on. Over."
Lydon obediently rolled onto his back. "You're not done torturing me yet?"
"Don’t be such a child,” he said with a laugh, unable to fake annoyance anymore. He pressed his fingertips into the spot below Lydon's ribs, making him groan.
"I can reach that one." Lydon held his hand out for the oil. "I'll do it myself."
"Working it in well is the key, and I'm not afraid of hurting you." Sporus swatted his hand away and kept massaging the spot "You'll go too easy on yourself when I won't."
"You never do." Lydon looked up at him, fond. "Such a cruel taskmaster."
Sporus brought his fist down on Lydon's stomach, but Lydon saw it coming and tightened his muscles. "Oof," he said with a laugh.
"I should be more cruel if it means you'll stay alive."
He stopped Sporus' hand. "I am alive, thanks to you. All without cruelty. I'm in your debt, Sporus. If you hadn't urged me to play to the crowd, who knows what would have happened. I owe you my life."
Sporus had the urge to throw him from the room. The hair on his arms bristled as his skin tightened in a quick shiver. They should be talking about bruises and tactics and survival, not gestures or gratitude.
He should have pretended the room was empty when Lydon knocked.
"You owe me nothing. Nothing more than hard training and not dying."
"Isn't that in itself quite a debt?"
"If it is, pay it by keeping your blood where it belongs, Lydon." He pressed his hand against Lydon's chest, over his heart. Sporus regretted it immediately for how it felt too natural, too good. He shouldn’t like it so much, shouldn’t be so weak as to like it, yet he left his hand in place. "It's more a debt to yourself than to me."
Lydon's hand covered his before he could move it, fingers sliding over the oiled skin. "I'm starting to wonder if there's much difference."
He should have slipped his hand from beneath Lydon's and acted as if he didn't know what the man was talking about. Letting him in, to lie in his bed, to have his wounds tended, mistakes Sporus should have known better than to make.
He had made them, though, like a fool, and Lydon’s hand was over his, those tired eyes no longer full of defiance but something softer Sporus couldn’t bear to put a name to. He was already too weak to stop what was happening, and he hated himself for it. For the pain it would inevitably cause both of them one day.
But Lydon was right. The difference between what was best for Lydon or Sporus had blurred for him a long time ago, too. The only thing that had prevented this, beyond his own willpower, was uncertainty if Lydon felt the same.
Lydon’s hand pressed against his, thumb stroking toward his wrist. "Is survival really all you want from me, Sporus?"
Lydon’s eyes crushed the last embers of Sporus’ uncertainty, and the wall he’d been carefully constructing since the day Lydon arrived crumbled to dust at his feet. He would let himself have whatever Lydon would grant him. He’d been dishonest every time he’d told himself he wouldn’t.
"I want that, Lydon. And so much more," he breathed. He leaned in as Lydon rose to catch his mouth in a kiss.
Lydon kissed the way he sparred: quick on the offensive, eager to engage. His tongue found Sporus’ and wrestled with it. He kissed hungrily, fully, drawing Sporus closer, devouring him and making Sporus want to be devoured.
Lydon pushed Sporus' hand down his chest, down his hard, slick stomach until he found his prize and gripped it tight. Lydon gasped against his mouth.
"Sword up and at the ready. Good form," Sporus whispered, then groaned as Lydon, laughing, hauled him into the bed.
Marcus stood next to Sporus, punching the air, shouting curses each time one of his favorite fighters failed to make the move he thought they should have. "What are you—where is your brain—oh for Isis' sake—no, no, parry, you fool!"
Sporus had defeated his opponent easily and been disappointed at the thumbs-down he was forced to act upon. The slave had tried to run and avoid fighting more than he'd fought. Sporus tried to give him chances to at least look braver than he was in the hopes he'd be spared, but he'd ended up bleeding on the ground more owing to his own cluelessness than Sporus' skill with a sword.
Sporus had hoped they'd let him live if only so he wouldn't have to hear him beg for his life or cry out in pain, weeping, at the last. A thumbs-up would have meant someone else would be forced to close his eyes on that when trying to sleep. The easy ones who died poorly were the ones who gave him dreams to ensure many sleepless nights.
Give Sporus a man who fought, who went out with his dignity intact and understood Sporus' role in it—that this was simply how things were done. You survived or you died, and if you couldn't defeat another in the arena you understood it was simply your turn, and you faced it like a man. He could sleep without regret, at least not much, after those battles. Tonight, he would not rest well.
At least he could distract himself for a time watching Lydon. He watched every fighter he trained to see which techniques they needed to improve. But watching Lydon fight was a joy.
"Oh no," Marcus said, genuine worry in his voice. "Lydon, if you get yourself killed after I've invested—"
"Lydon!" Sporus shouted as Lydon's sword was whipped away by the net his opponent wielded. How many times had they trained for this? How could he be so careless? Lydon was now unarmed against a retiarius he had clearly underestimated. The man thrust his trident at Lydon, who dodged, but was caught on the shoulder hard and deep enough to make him stumble.
"Lydon!" Sporus took a step and would have rushed onto the field to defend Lydon if Marcus hadn't grabbed his arm.
Marcus stared at him wide-eyed. "What are you doing?"
Sporus didn't answer, but watched Lydon with concentration as if he could think his instructions hard enough with the power of sheer will that Lydon might pick up on them. The opponent swung his net, hoping to snare Lydon and pull him down, and instead of trying to dodge it, Lydon stepped into it.
"Oh for the—" Marcus slapped his hands against the sides of his head.
Lydon used the net to pull the opponent forward and past him, sending him tumbling. When he stood again, Lydon held his net.
"That's good," Sporus shouted. "Yes!" A net was little match for a trident, objectively, but the skill of the user could make even a feather deadlier than a sword.
"Come on, come on," Marcus grumbled. "Don't hesitate, Lydon. Don't give him time!"
"Give him time," Sporus said softly. "Let him make a plan, and then do the one thing he doesn't expect."
Lydon gave the opponent time, but not too much. He used the net to glance off a blow from the trident and tangle it enough to yank it from the man's hands. Now Lydon had the retiarius’ weapons while he stood bare-handed, scanning the ground for Lydon's sword.
Lydon didn't give him a chance to find it. He lunged, driving him back several steps at a time, until he stood over the man waiting for the verdict.
Sporus looked away as Lydon used the man's trident against him, the thought that it could have as easily been Lydon lying there turning his stomach.
"Train him more with the net," Marcus said, drawing Sporus' attention. "Hear that crowd?"
Fighters with tridents and nets were almost always disadvantaged against a strong man with a sword unless they were uncommonly skilled. Yet Lydon had disarmed one with no weapon and turned the man’s weapons against him.
Lydon turned so they could all see him, arms in the air, the shouts of his name ringing through the arena. The shouts of "Champion" that had been aimed at Sporus not long before Lydon came loud enough to drown out everything else.
He’d wanted to be Champion. Something in him still did, though not at the cost of Lydon’s life.
Sporus didn't wait for him the way he usually did, but retreated to his cell and quickly washed so he could be gone before Lydon came looking for him. Tonight, Sporus was going to drink with the others and stop thinking about crowds or champions or Lydon at the wrong end of a blade.
The days went on much the same as they always had, except Sporus had someone to occasionally share his bed at night.
They prepared each other for battle, they fought, they survived, they fucked. They also talked, which was the only part of any of it that tended to make Sporus uncomfortable. He was getting better at it, but he still listened more than he shared.
He had more nightmares than he'd ever had in his life. Most ended with Lydon lying in a pool of his own blood, sometimes with the bloody sword that killed him in Sporus’ hand. As disturbing as those dreams were, he could tolerate them. Suffering them, for now, was worth having Lydon close to him as often as possible.
He had to tell himself that many times through the course of most days, because the urge was to keep Lydon at arm’s length. He was unfamiliar with being so close to anyone, and he kept trying to revert to the way things were before Lydon arrived.
Sometimes he talked himself into staying away, into ending things between them before Lydon changed his mind or one of them fell. And then Lydon would push him into his room after a battle and kiss him, and he forgot everything but the taste of Lydon’s mouth against his for a while longer.
Today, Sporus had defeated his last opponent handily, just a new slave with almost no survival instincts, and had decided to stop training for the day. He splashed water on his face and arms, and didn’t bother looking for anything to dry them with. He’d dry well enough on the walk to his cell.
He knew Lydon followed him without looking over his shoulder.
Lydon’s looks had grown increasingly hungry as they’d sparred earlier. And Sporus knew how he must have appeared. He’d been distracted by Lydon’s body, wishing for it against him in something other than an attempt to throw him to the ground.
He’d laughed too loudly at the clever things Lydon said, and given praise too easily for everything he’d done right.
Sporus stepped into his room and within seconds the door opened and closed behind him. He didn’t turn. Lydon’s hands gripped his shoulders, and his mouth found Sporus’ neck.
“You did well today, Lydon. But your form could still use some work.”
“Correct me tomorrow,” Lydon breathed into Sporus’ ear, hands already sliding down his body. Sporus let Lydon push him down to his bed.
You’re making a fool of yourself.
He should stop Lydon, put an end to it for both their sakes. But when Lydon pressed hard and slick against him, seeking entrance, Sporus was helpless to do anything but welcome him.
Sporus lay on his back with Lydon pressed against his side. Lydon traced a scar on Sporus’ shoulder with his fingertip. “How many more?”
“How many more what? Scars?”
“Battles. How many before you’ll move on to something else?”
Sporus laughed and brushed his fingertips in circles on Lydon’s back and shoulder. “However many it takes to kill me, I suppose.”
“Don’t say that.You’re not a slave. You don’t have to keep fighting.”
“But it’s true. What else would I do? I don’t know any other life, Lydon.”
“There’s farming. Or you could apprentice with some—”
“Stop. I see no point in dreaming of things that will never come to pass.”
“But it will come to pass, Sporus. I’ll earn my freedom, and my father’s, and I’ll never get near an arena again.”
An unpleasant shiver flashed through Sporus’ body. “You wouldn’t even come to watch me fight, Lydon?” he said, unable to keep the sarcastic, hurt tone out of his voice.
“Sporus—”
“Perhaps not, because you also imagine that you’ve defeated me, and so there’s no one left to see.”
“Of course not! Why are you talking this way?”
Why was he? Why did he imagine the worst when he knew Lydon would take no joy in his death, especially not at his own hands. He cupped Lydon’s cheek and kissed him, hard, fast. “Never mind. Dream of your farming, Lydon, if that’s what gives you a reason to wake each morning.”
Lydon moved on top of Sporus and kissed him back, but softly. “Dreaming of no longer fighting in the arena isn’t the only thing that rouses me each morning, Sporus.”
Sporus took Lydon’s face in his hands and then closed his eyes and tilted his head back for Lydon to kiss his neck. As those lips moved down his body, Sporus sighed. “And I’m grateful for that.”
Sporus sat on his bed, a cloth pressed against his chest, the wound nearly dry. It wasn’t deep or particularly painful, but it had bled steadily for a while everytime he moved.
He’d been sparring with Lydon with a real sword instead of wood for more meaningful practice. Lydon should never have been able to get the tip so close. Sporus knew he’d been distracted, desiring Lydon as much as he desired to teach him. He’d been over-confident, and he’d stepped into Lydon’s thrust when he should have dodged.
They knew each other’s moves by now, running through them like a dance more than an attempt to catch the other in a weak moment. Lydon had expected him to step sideways, and he’d been horrified when he realized what he’d done.
Marcus waved it off. “What are you fretting over? He’s taken worse wounds shaving, Lydon.”
But Lydon had insisted they stop and was fussing over him still. Lydon’s concern was the only thing that kept Sporus from shouting in anger at his own shortcomings.
Lydon sat next to him and insisted on seeing the wound.
“You see? Nearly skinned over now.” Sporus didn’t press the cloth against it again, lest he open it and let it bleed anew.
“I’ll be more careful next time.”
“You did what you were supposed to. It was my fault.”
“No, I—”
He shot to his feet. “Lydon. I was careless. In the arena, it would have been my throat cut, not this little thing.” He gestured to his chest. “And I’d have deserved it.”
“Don’t say such things.”
“I think my best days are behind me.”
“What?” Lydon took his shoulders and laughed without joy. “You’re being foolish, all because I got in a lucky strike once in all the times we’ve sparred.”
No, your skills are surpassing mine. Lydon would realize it soon enough, realize that he had the upper hand in battle with Sporus and there’d be no more comfort after training or the arena, no more kisses trailed down his body in the dark.
Sporus put his hands on Lydon’s hips and pulled their bodies flush. “Perhaps you’re right. Care to distract me from my foolishness?”
Lydon obliged him. He always did.
Sporus had the urge again to stop it, to end things before Lydon could, or before the blade of another ended it for them, leaving the other to mourn and crave a touch that would never come again.
But Lydon was as skilled with Sporus’ body as he was with his sword. Sporus eagerly conceded defeat.
Sporus lay with his back against Lydon’s chest, Lydon’s arms around him. He’d listened to Lydon talk about the things he planned to do when he was done with fighting and he’d bought his father’s freedom.
He sounded so sure about it all that Sporus was starting to believe it might actually happen.
As much as he wanted to feel happiness at the thought for Lydon’s sake, the thought of being left behind tasted bitter on his tongue. The two thoughts warred with each other until his stomach sat like a rock beneath his heart.
“We can find some land and a home big enough for three.”
Sporus leaned up and turned. Had he misheard? The stone of his stomach lurched. His heart pounded in his chest. “We?”
“Me, you and my father.” Lydon pressed a kiss to his lips. “I know you scoff at the idea, but I haven’t given up on it. If I can’t find a house big enough, I’ll build one with my own hands.”
The trembling started in Sporus’ midsection and shook his insides enough his lungs could barely expand to draw breath.
Sporus was afraid to open his mouth to speak. When he gained the courage, there were so many different, conflicting things fighting for his tongue, he didn’t know what he was going to say until he heard it. “You’re mad.”
Lydon chuckled. “You’ll see.” He took Sporus’ face in his hands and kissed him again, deeper, a kiss that tasted like the sweetest promise. How long before it turned to ash? “I’ll make it happen.”
Another surprise came out of Sporus’ mouth. “What makes you think I want to leave here and live with you and your father?”
He’d struck a blow. Part of him cheered. The rest of him hated that part of him.
Lydon’s smile faltered. “Don’t you?”
“You think you can make a decision, and that’s how it will come to pass? Enough that you’re willing to try to decide the rest of my life for me?”
“I don’t understand. I thought you’d be happy.”
“Did you?” He wanted to stop. He wanted to say he was, that the thought of leaving with Lydon would make him happy. But that would be giving the fates something more to steal. “How presumptuous.”
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make choices for you.”
That was better. He’d regained some control. Sporus shook his head, as if everything were alright. He kissed Lydon to soothe the sting of his words. He was prepared to lie down again and act as if nothing had been passed between them.
But Lydon cupped his face, kissed him more eagerly, more tenderly than Sporus had done. “I love you, Sporus.”
Warmth flooded Sporus’ chest. How could words affect him so? What right did they have to do this to him? Cold rushed in, to cool the rush of heat he craved as much as he feared. They collided, and the storm was darker and rougher than Sporus could withstand.
Lydon held him, staring into his eyes, no doubt waiting for some acknowledgement, some returned words to reassure him. Was it better to stay in control and give something cherished away willingly than wait for it to be ripped away when you least expected it?
Sporus wrenched himself free and stood, his back to Lydon because he could only imagine the madness passing over his face.
Sporus slowly, painfully, laughed. “You ridiculous child.”
“I’m hardly a child,” Lydon said, his voice drawn and low.
“Not in age, but in mind. In heart.” He tried to school his features, to harden them so Lydon wouldn’t see him falling apart. He spun and glared down at Lydon, who still lay on his back, as if stunned into stillness. “There could never be love between us. That you imagine you feel such a thing makes me wonder how feeble your mind really is.”
“Sporus,” Lydon said, his tone a warning.
“Get up and get out. I no longer wish to toy with you.”
Lydon got to his feet so quickly Sporus almost startled and stepped back, but he held his ground.
“Sporus . . . you love me, too. I know you do. I’ve seen it in your eyes.” His voice was less a threat now, more a plea.
“You’ve seen what you wanted to see. I never lied to you by saying such a silly thing.”
Lydon grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close. He kissed Sporus, hard and demanding. Sporus tried to act unaffected, even keeping his lips together at first, but he couldn’t withstand it. He gave in to the kiss, but only to allow it, not participate. He remained stiff and unyielding as Lydon tried to caress him and coax a reaction from him. To triumph over Sporus in this way yet again.
When Sporus wouldn’t give him that, Lydon stepped back and let his arms drop. “You do love me.”
“You’re a fool,” Sporus hissed, because his voice fought the words so hard. “Leave here now, or I will.”
Lydon’s cheeks flexed as he clenched his jaws, his thin lips pulled back in a grimace as he blinked fast. He sucked in a breath, mouth moving as if he were trying to speak, but only a shaky breath emerged.
A single tear ran down Lydon’s cheek before he’d gained control of his expression, levered it into a mask of calm. Pride flared in Sporus at Lydon’s strength and control in that moment.
Lydon turned away, and any warmth Sporus had let himself cherish over the last months, any sense of happiness he’d indulged in and become comfortable with, left with him.
Sporus dropped to his knees, arms thrown across his bed. He hung onto it as if the ground were tilted and threatening to send him sliding down into some unknown, dark place. He laughed breathily. “Love,” he spat, and laughed some more. He laughed until he wept and wished for that dark, imagined place to swallow him up so he could stop.
Sporus had expected Lydon to avoid him after what he’d said. Lydon might not have been at his elbow as much as before, but he was there enough that he was obviously not about to leave Sporus alone.
Sometimes he glared at Sporus, but the meaning came through. It was a challenge. You love me.
Sporus would turn away so his face wouldn’t say things he was unwilling to utter.
His bed was cold at night, his needs unmet, but during the day he and Lydon sparred as they always had. Sporus avoided conversation or praise, only offering mockery when Lydon did something less than perfect.
He’d convince Lydon there was no love in him no matter how long it took. No matter how much it ached or left him drained and trembling in his bed at night, longing for his warmth.
If he didn’t love Lydon, losing him to a farmer’s field wouldn’t hurt. Losing him to a gladiator’s sword wouldn’t hurt.
The hurt he felt now had to be less than either of those, surely. So he tried to embrace it and focus instead on all he’d gain. Lack of distraction. Less lost sleep under Lydon’s hands. Less . . . fear of losing him.
When he came round that circle of thought to the point that none of it made sense anymore and hurt flowed into hurt, Sporus sparred wildly with other slaves, his anger, he reasoned, making them stronger.
A day came when Lydon no longer challenged him with a glance. He didn’t seem to be daring Sporus not to love him, but had accepted the truth of it. Lydon was colder to him than many of the others he knew far less well.
He and Lydon had become colleagues. Gladiators fighting in the same arena. Nothing more. They barely spoke besides an occasional “be careful” or “good luck.”
Sporus had gotten what he wanted, and he hated the whole world and all the gods for it.
Eventually, he noticed Lydon often stopped to talk to the pretty flower girl, Nydia. She became another thing to hate, and a place to direct his frustration. He spoke to Lydon again when he had a cutting remark about his new love interest. He mocked Lydon’s affection for her in front of the others. He mocked her blindness. He tried to make Lydon seem weak and foolish for his affection.
In the hope that he gives up the idea.
He shouldn’t care who Lydon chose to spend his time with. He had no right to be jealous. He’d pushed Lydon away, and shouldn’t wish for him to remain alone, pining for a love Sporus had refused him. He shouldn’t want Lydon to be miserable without him.
Damn him, but he did.
Marcus lumbered toward them, a tall, fine-looking young man at his elbow. Sporus nodded in his direction to draw Lydon’s attention.
Marcus introduced Gar, who puffed out his chest and lifted his chin as if he had something to be proud of. Marcus put him in Lydon’s hands for training.
When Marcus left Gar with them, Lydon ignored him for a moment. “Sporus, can we talk?”
Sporus cut his eyes at Gar and said, “Right now it looks like your hands are quite full, Lydon.”
He walked away before Lydon could say anything else, vowing he wouldn’t turn around and look at them standing there. What could Lydon want to talk about after all this time? He’d heard rumors that Nydia was in love with Glaucus, not Lydon.
He stomped down the hope of it. Even if it were true, even if Lydon had given up on her and wanted Sporus instead . . . Talking to him would be too risky. He couldn’t trust his own mouth to say things unbidden. And if Lydon still had any hope . . Sporus couldn’t be dragged over those rocks again. He wasn’t sure he had the strength.
He might blurt out that it wasn’t a lack of feeling or desire for Lydon that kept Sporus away from him, but fear.
He knew Lydon would say, “Fear of what?” And Sporus wouldn’t be able to answer. A gladiator as strong as he couldn’t blurt “of everything, especially myself” and hope to save face in front of the person who’d somehow grown more important to him, despite his claims to the contrary, than any other living creature in Rome, or the world, could he?
The only things he didn’t fear were combat and death. Those were simple: you lived or you died.
But outside the arena, when he got close enough to Lydon to feel the heat of his body or saw him looking at Nydia with a familiar longing in his eyes, those were the battles that terrified him.
Sporus thought he’d have felt something more than regret at ending Gar’s life. He didn’t. He took cowardly comfort in the fact that he was only doing what he must do. And that Lydon, for all his disapproving stares as they fought, had nodded. He knew Sporus had no more choice in these matters than he did.
Gar wasn’t the first slave that Lydon had trained who Sporus had dispatched. But Gar had lasted longer than most, and Lydon had been more protective of him than others. While Sporus had so much resentment and jealousy wrapped up in Gar he’d become almost larger than life.
Sporus hated Gar for being over-confident, for fighting poorly, and dying. Mostly because it could become one more wedge between him and Lydon.
Lydon met his eyes as he walked out to fight Glaucus. Sporus’ breath caught at what he saw there. Lydon was prepared to die rather than kill Glaucus.
Sporus stopped. He wanted to run across, gut Glaucus as he emerged to spare Lydon having to do it, to make sure Lydon walked out in the end. But he kept walking. He’d wait and watch. And if he could spare Lydon pain, or death, well, his sword was already wet. What was one more regret?
Glaucus, more noble than almost any man could be where he stood, waited on his knees now, clearly unwilling to escape his fate. Lydon held his sword tip at Glaucus’ throat.
“Thrust,” Sporus hissed, not unlike he’d begged Lydon to do once when dying by his sword had seemed a better alternative to living without his touch. “Thrust.”
While he burned inside, hating Gar and himself and the fact that try as he might he couldn’t bring himself to hate Lydon, the word began to shake itself apart. People flooded the arena to escape the crumbling stone, catching others up in their panicked wave.
Sporus scanned the throng for Lydon, who was always easy to spot because of his height. He didn’t really believe in gods the way others did, but it might have been one who whispered into his heart at that moment that Lydon would be fine without him. That hateful but honest god did give him comfort then. Lydon would be all right, if any of them could be. He’d prevail if it were possible. He was Champion, after all.
Sporus ran from the arena, more on instinct than the desire to survive, and when the ceiling fell and pain came to put an end to his turmoil, Sporus squinted up through the dust and laughed. He would die undefeated in the arena, but crushed in every other part of his life. A fitting end for a would-be champion as cowardly as he. He closed his eyes, moaning, and waited for the darkness to come, as he’d always known it would.
“Sporus!”
Lydon, as he so often did, pulled him back from the brink. His voice, so familiar, so loved, would be the last one he heard in this life. It was a better ending than he deserved.
He knew he had only moments to say anything he’d been choking on for so long and unable to utter. Apologies, pleas, explanations he wished he’d had the courage to make. Most of all, he wanted Lydon to understand that he simply hadn’t been able to be any other way, as much as he’d wished for that.
And he wanted Lydon to run. He had to be quick.
“Lydon.” He tried to draw in a deep breath as Lydon lifted the stone from his chest. “Lydon,” creaked out again. When Lydon took his hand, the words, for the first time, spilled out of him so easily now that all uncertainty was gone and he had nothing more to fear. He could leave this world knowing he left Lydon whole and standing tall.
Sporus didn’t know if it was a kindness or a cruelty to tell the truth now, or if like most things, it was a measure of both.
He choked in a breath that tasted like blood. “I did love you.”
He squeezed Lydon’s hand in a final goodbye, then relaxed it to let go.
Lydon, damn his stubbornness, held on. “Then keep loving me now,” Lydon said, his voice as hard as the stones that fell around them.
Sporus cried out as he was lifted and carried, each step driving waves of pain throughout his body. He tried to hang on to Lydon’s neck, to brace himself and make it easier, but after only a dozen steps he gave himself over to the darkness.
The air stung as he breathed in. He opened his eyes to a red and black sky and a bed of ash. Sporus lay on the street, Lydon next to him, kneeling over a body. Weeping over it. His father.
Oh, Lydon.
He faded for a moment, he didn’t know how long, but woke again as he was being lifted from the ground.
“Leave me, Lydon,” he cried out. “Save yourself.”
Lydon’s face was wet with tears, and Sporus stroked his fingertips over Lydon’s cheek, smearing gray ash as he did so. “Go.”
“I’ll save both of us, or neither of us,” Lydon ground out, and Sporus sank into the peace of unconsciousness again.
Sporus woke enough to see faces above him, to feel hands tending his wounds and wiping his brow with a cool, wet cloth. Lydon's face sometimes. Nydia’s, others. He could never gather the strength or will to speak to them before the dark closed in and took him again.
If he felt pain, he was alive, at least.
He started to remember the pain of waking before and how each new bout of wakefulness came with a little less of it.
He didn't know how many hours or days might have passed that Lydon and Nydia held cool water to his lips and urged him to drink. Finally, he woke fully enough that he didn't feel himself to start to fall the moment his eyes focused.
"Lydon," he whispered.
Lydon's smile was a balm for his wounds and his heart. Lydon rested a hand on his chest. "Are you in much pain?"
Sporus shook his head. "Where?"
"Cumae."
Sporus was surprised at first, then realized that he and anyone else who’d been injured may be why they had only traveled part of the way up the coast rather than go as far as Rome. If that was the reason, he supposed he should be grateful.
He woke again, he didn’t know how much later, hours or days. Lydon sat by his bedside. He cleared his throat. “Nydia tends to me too," he said. "So she is well?"
"My wife is quite well,” Lydon said as he moved closer to take Sporus’ hand.
"You wasted no time."
"I almost lost her. There was no time to waste."
Lydon explained how long they’d been nursing him back to health.
Weeks? That barely seemed possible, but then he remembered some of the cool water they gave him was actually warm, thin broth and gruel. Weeks. No wonder he felt as weak as a leaf in a windstorm, and his hands and voice shook from disuse. He'd spoken to them, moved, even sat a few times without remembering. And they'd gotten enough water and soup into him to keep him breathing. How would he repay this?
“I thought she didn’t love you, Lydon. That she wanted another.”
Lydon smiled, not without sadness. “Yes. But as she prepared to leave on Glaucus’ ship, she said she realized she did love me and didn’t want to live without me. Rather than save herself, she came back looking for me. I found her, near exhaustion, with Chloe and her child.”
So a child’s cry he thought he sometimes heard hadn’t been a dream.
“You’re blessed.”
Lydon squeezed his hand and leaned close. “I am.”
Sporus traced back through his memories, trying to untangle them. His heart ached as the strands became clear. "I am sorry about your father, Lydon That he couldn't come here and live free with you."
"Thank you, Sporus."
Nydia came into the room then with a bowl in her hand. "Sporus! I heard your voice. I'm so happy you're awake enough to talk."
Her face, so bright and beautiful, tightened Sporus’ throat until he thought he’d choke. He cleared his throat again, and measured his words. "Only because of the good care I've received."
Lydon pressed his hand against Sporus' shoulder. "She's got food that you desperately need." He helped Sporus sit up in the bed, gasping in pain, to rest his back against the wall.
Lydon squeezed his shoulder again and left Sporus alone with Nydia, who hadn't stopped smiling since she came in. She sat in a chair next to his bed with the bowl in her lap, and lifted the spoon just above the surface of the soup. "Are you able, or should I get a cup instead?"
"I'm able, Nydia, but not hungry."
"You must regain your strength, and you can't do that without eating."
Sporus took the bowl from her and held it in both hands, staring into it. "I suppose not."
Sporus took a spoonful of the soup. It was hot and salty, and good. "Congratulations are in order, I hear."
Nydia beamed. "Thank you." When Sporus took another mouthful of soup, she said, "He's been so worried about you, Sporus. His heart will be so much lighter now that you're back with us."
"I—I'm glad." He gave the bowl back to Nydia. He wasn't lying, but how he felt was so much more complicated than merely glad. Lydon should have left him behind, but Sporus was grateful he hadn't. Lydon should have killed him when they sparred and Sporus begged him to, but of course he hadn’t, and Sporus was grateful.
He loved Lydon, and he hated that love.
Only in Sporus' mind where everything he felt about Lydon was knotted like an oiled rope did that make any kind of sense. He wished he could go back and try to keep everything from tangling together. To do things differently.
He wouldn't have taunted Lydon about Nydia. He owed her gratitude now, and an apology.
He tried to muster an ounce of the dark feelings he’d held toward her, but when she put the bowl on the small table close by and her fingers brushed across his brow to check for fever, he took her hand. The gentleness of her touch made him want to weep.
Had nearly dying made him this weak and soft? At least he had the debt of her saving his life as an excuse for it.
“Nydia.”
Her soft smile appeared again.
“I hated you.”
She didn’t blink for a long time. Then her chin quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. “Because Lydon loves me,” she said, a statement, no need for her to even ask.
“I hated you for that, though you were faultless, and now you’ve saved my life. I would ask your forgiveness if I thought you should give it, but I don’t. I merely wanted to confess.”
She cupped Sporus’ hands in hers, blinking tears down her cheeks. “Oh, Sporus. I forgive you.”
“How can you? How is it possible?” he hissed.
She lay her hand against his cheek. “I betrayed Ione because I wanted Glaucus to love me. I hated her too, sometimes.”
Nydia smiled, her lips trembling. “I know the pain you feel. And I forgive you.”
“Why?” The word trembled out like he might be a whipped child instead of a gladiator.
“Because he loves you, too.”
The words, so sweet, came out like music without a hint of jealousy or bitterness. Sporus felt ashamed that he could have never said it in such a way.
“He told you?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“And you don’t hate me?”
“How could I, when he loves you so much?”
Lydon stepped through the doorway, a tight-lipped smile on his face, but eyes that showed the genuineness of his delight at Sporus' improving health. “You are looking better.”
Nydia sniffed and turned her head toward Lydon, still holding Sporus’ hand in one of hers. “He ate a little. He is getting better.”
Lydon glanced at Nydia and back to him. So that was it. He worried what Sporus might say to her, or how he might treat her.
Sporus met Lydon’s gaze."How can I not when I'm cared for by such gentle hands?"
A moment passed before Lydon's expression changed to relief. Sporus' heart ached that Lydon had to decide whether he was sincere or mocking. He couldn't hold that doubt and uncertainty against him, because it did sound like something he might have said sarcastically before.
"You flatter me," Nydia said with a little laugh.
"I speak the truth," Sporus said, moved so much by the honesty that it came out almost a whisper. He lifted their hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
"You should try to eat more before it gets cold." She let go and spread her hands over the small table where she’d sat the bowl.
"It'll have to wait. I'll eat more soon."
"Promise," she urged, with a sweet smile still on her face.
"Promise."
She rose and carefully made her way around the bed. When she was almost to the door, Lydon touched her shoulder, then kissed her forehead before she left.
Sporus felt fatigue curling around the edges, so he let himself slide lower in the bed. "I suppose I should commend you on your choice of a wife. I did congratulate her, but I suppose I should commend her on her choice of a husband, too. You've both done exceptionally well." He managed to smile.
"False compliments aren't necessary between us, Sporus. You know that.'
"I know, but I’m sincere. She's a lovely person with a good and kind heart. You're well-matched."
Lydon's tight smile relaxed into one that made him look less like he was expecting a blow. "I always thought you liked Nydia, no matter what you said."
"I liked her. And hated her.”
"You were merely jealous."
It stung to hear Lydon point it out so bluntly, but he closed his eyes and sighed. "Yes."
"Why, Sporus?"
"Why?" He stared at Lydon in disbelief. How was it not obvious to him? "Your dream of leaving the arena and settling down with Nydia meant . . . Lydon, think. I saw her as someone who would take you away from me."
Lydon shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed facing Sporus. "That's the part I don't understand."
He wanted to sleep. He wanted to stop talking and saying things he’d held deep inside for so long. But the words tore out of him, leaving raw places in their wake.
"You wanted to leave to be a farmer. There'd be no more sparring, no training, no shared victory after the games. Not with you off plowing soil and harvesting and having children."
“You made it clear you didn’t want me, could never love me. You turned me away, Sporus. What was I supposed to do?”
Sporus took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Did he have any fight left in him at all? Could he resist speaking the truth in the face of so much damned kindness and care?
Lydon broke the silence. “I knew you loved me. And I also knew you were determined not to. I don’t know why, Sporus, but you left me no choice but to find companionship elsewhere.”
“I know.” That would have to do, because he didn’t have the energy to try to explain something to Lydon he didn’t fully understand himself. But for all his fatigue, like so many times in his life, Sporus couldn’t shut his mouth. “You should thank me. Look at the result.”
Lydon stared down at him. “The result is that Nydia loves me. And now, like I always believed, you love me, too.”
Sporus opened his mouth to protest, but Lydon raised his finger. “It came from your own mouth.”
How could he argue with that? “You should have let me die. I wouldn’t have tried to save you,” he lied, an old habit he fell back into so easily.
Lydon grabbed his shoulders. “Why? Why are you determined that everyone should hate you and see you as something you’re not?”
“You always saw what you wanted to see.”
“I’ve seen you drop alms into the hands of hungry children when you thought no one was looking, all while mocking me for not saving my money. I’ve seen you drop coin into Nydia’s hand.”
He shook his head. “Guilt, nothing more.”
“You were the first to offer a hand of comfort to Melior’s woman.”
Sporus took a deep breath. “I was thirsty. I went in first.”
Lydon scoffed. “You could have passed by without touching her. Why do you try so hard to seem thoughtless and cruel when you’re so capable of kindness, Sporus? What drives you to do this?” Lydon’s frustration charged the air between them. His firm grip on Sporus’ shoulders stirred feelings he’d long ago tried to push aside.
“Melior told me about Gar, Sporus. How he meant to have Nydia.”
Sporus remembered it well. “Then I’m surprised you didn’t end him yourself.”
“He told me how you made some mocking comment and walked away. But not too far away. You waited, and watched.”
He’d had no idea Melior had paid that much attention to him. “Melior stopped him, Lydon.”
“And if he hadn’t? You would have.”
He wouldn’t lie this time. Not after Nydia had just touched him so gently, cared for him so steadfastly. Comforted him with forgiveness.
He wouldn’t lie about her now. Not to push Lydon away. Not to spare himself.
“Yes! I would have stopped him if Melior hadn’t.”
“I knew it.” Lydon’s hands slid down his shoulders.
“Then know this about me, too. At first, I hadn’t planned to.” He grit his teeth together and stared down at the bed. “I thought it was the perfect way to get rid of them both. You would have hated Gar, and Nydia would never want another gladiator’s touch. Perhaps she would have hated you for not being there to save her. I thought about it, Lydon! How doing nothing would have removed both of them from your life.”
“But you still decided to help her, if need be.”
“Because of what it would have done to you if I hadn’t.” He could feel Lydon’s stare boring into him, so he met it.
Lydon’s jaw worked, then he shook his head. “I don’t care what you consider, Sporus. I only care what you do in the end. What you would have done.”
Damn him. He and Nydia were going to flood him with forgiveness he didn’t deserve. He was drowning in it, and couldn’t fight back anymore.
They stared at each other until Sporus spoke softly. "I wanted them to spare Gar, you know."
Lydon tilted his head, eyes narrowed. "Did you, Sporus?" He clasped Sporus’ hand. “Did you truly?”
Sporus squeezed his hand. Perhaps he should lie and sound like an honorable man? He considered it, but he owed the man, and truth was all he may ever have to pay that debt.
And all his truths hurt, it seemed.
He locked his gaze with Lydon’s and didn’t try to wipe the tear that ran down his cheek at the full weight of it. He spoke slowly, almost a whisper. "At least as much as I didn't."
Lydon would surely turn against him now, wouldn’t he? But he stayed, holding Sporus’ hand yet tighter. Lydon’s gaze softened. “An honest answer.”
Sporus’ eyelids fluttered, involuntary and unmistakable crushing fatigue closing in.
“Sleep, Sporus. We have plenty of time to talk when you’re stronger.”
He felt Lydon’s lips on his forehead, and then he dreamed of plowed fields and sunshine.
Lydon didn’t turn away from him. He and Nydia spent so much time caring for him, he wondered aloud more than once if they ever found time to do anything else.
They didn’t talk about much of consequence, perhaps Lydon sensing that pushing him too much would be unwise. Farming was the conversation much of the time. Chloe’s child learning to walk and bobbling around unsteadily with skinned knees that Chloe was constantly fretting over. Glaucus wedding Ione. Olinthus and the Christians, always discussed in whispers, even now. Olinthus had apparently prayed for Sporus, often and at length, and though Lydon was skeptical of this Christianity, he was grateful.
Lydon brought Sporus a tall stick he used to pull himself out of bed and move about without Lydon’s help. He limped and would never do battle in an arena again. Working a field might even be beyond him, but he knew eventually he’d try. He’d earn his keep.
Lydon sat on the edge of Sporus’ bed one evening after Nydia had gone to help Chloe. He took Sporus’ hand, as he often did. He’d never moved beyond that, and only offered a quick clasp or squeeze.
Nydia took his hand often, too. She also kissed his forehead, or brushed her lips over his cheek, touched his face. She’d made it clear she considered him part of their family. He was welcome.
He was home, if he wanted to be.
“There are five here instead of three,” Lydon said, pulling him out of his sleepy thoughts. “Nydia, instead of my father. But it did come to pass, Sporus.”
Sporus remembered his determination. “It did, didn’t it?”
Lydon stared at him so intently that Sporus lay a hand against his cheek like he might have long ago when Lydon still crawled into his bed at night, before Nydia and Gar and the fury of the gods raining down fire upon all of them.
“I suppose, Lydon, you were right.” He smiled without meaning to, but he couldn’t stop it. “If you’re waiting to hear that I was wrong, however . . .”
Lydon laughed. “You can’t push without also pulling, can you?”
Sporus let his thumb brush over Lydon’s lips. It had been so long. He’d ached for so long.
“Haven’t you ever wanted something,” Lydon asked, “without conflict? Without feeling the need to push it away as if you don’t? Why have you always done that?”
He swallowed hard. “You’re the only thing I ever wanted that made me ask myself that question.”
Then Sporus shook his head, as if to clear it. “Lydon, this life you want for us. I . . . want to try. I do. But for me . . . it won’t be easy.”
“With you, Sporus, nothing ever is.” Lydon laughed, and the joy in it made Sporus smile. “If I wanted something easy, we could never have been friends.”
Sporus was starting to see that, to see how well-matched they’d been from the beginning, when Lydon leaned in and kissed him. And as he always had been, Sporus was helpless to do anything but drink him in.
Sporus should have knocked, should have called out for Lydon before stepping into the room. He should have shown some decorum, at least, and turned away when he saw Lydon in bed with Nydia straddling his hips, her breasts bouncing as she rode him, hair trailing down her back.
But he was mesmerized by how beautiful she was, how beautiful they both were, caught up in their rapture. And how only the faintest hint of jealousy played at the edges of his mind.
“Sporus,” Lydon whispered.
Nydia stopped and turned her head. He was prepared to rush away with a mumbled apology, but Nydia smiled. Her fair cheeks blushed, but she wordlessly reached out her hand.
Lydon licked his lips, watching them both.
You’re making a fool of yourself.
He reached for her hand, the hand that had brought him back to life when it should have been content to let him die. Should have wanted to crush him.
She brought his hand to her lips, kissed his palm, then placed it on her breast.
Sporus exhaled, slow, trembling, and kissed Nydia. Lydon gasped and took Sporus’ arm, pulling him closer until he sat on the bed next to them. Sporus kissed her shoulder, marveling at the soft cream of her skin, then let his hand slide down her body to stroke her where she and Lydon were joined.
Nydia tossed her head back with a soft cry. Her fingers found Sporus’ hair, and she gently pushed him down to kiss Lydon’s chest, his throat, and finally his mouth. A slight pain traveled down his spine into his side, a stiffness left from his injuries he’d probably never be rid of, warning him that he shouldn’t bend like that. He didn’t care.
Sporus marveled at how he didn’t want to run from the room or pretend he didn’t want exactly what he wanted. Maybe it was because now he wouldn’t lose Lydon to farming, or a gladiator’s sword.
He could lose him countless other ways, but that would always be true. Always had been. But he could choose not to lose him because of his own stubbornness and fear, and jealousy. They all wanted him to make that choice.
Even him.
He kissed Lydon, and tried to give them all what they wanted. Push without pulling. Love without hating. Maybe he could be a sort of champion, after all.
“You do love me,” Lydon breathed against his lips.
Sporus didn’t say it back, but he graced Lydon with a grin that he kissed away with a laugh. When determined lips dragged down Sporus’ throat, he knew that Lydon would pull that confession out of him again, soon enough.