Chapter 1
Quintus stood still in the shadows under the atrium entrance to the arena. The sand blazed bright, combining with the rising buzz of the crowd like a memory of bee hives. He hefted his leaf bladed sword lightly from palm to palm, relishing the warm smoothness of the metal.
His emotions were not strictly human, but a thrill ran through him at the thought of the duel to come. Invariably he would be disappointed, as he carved his way through yet another substandard opponent, yet this moment of anticipation always captured him. He felt no guilt at the way he was occasionally forced to toy with the men facing him; for he was here to observe human nature, and duty bound to ensure the fight was not so short as to upset the crowd.
The trumpets brayed, harsh and exulting. Recognising his cue, Quintus strode forward across the line of shadow into the dazzlement of the sun. Even under the protective barrier of mud and sand, his white skin sizzled slightly. Squinting his pale eyes, he focused on the small dark figure walking forward from the other end of the arena.
Regret stirred in his heart when he realised by the brace of her step that it was a woman. Not because of any human sentimentality, but because the few women he’d faced had fallen too easily, frail moths snuffed out under his fingertips. It never endeared him to the crowd either, bloodthirsty as they were. He widened his stance, turning his attention to her next move.
Already she was unusual, in that she hadn’t turned to run, scrabbling and wailing at the arena walls. Neither had she lumbered forward in a charge of bravado, fear making her clumsy. Instead she simply stopped as she reached the centre of the arena and faced him, stance reflecting his own. Her hands were empty, but short twin pommels peeked above her shoulders from scabbards bound against her back. Her face was hidden by a closed bronze mask, only the occasional glint of her eyes marking the intelligence within.
They stood there, echoing each other. Gladiator sandals, linen tunic, short skirt of leather strips, bronze vambraces. The only differences were his bare, scarred chest and head, compared to her gilded breastplate and helmet. For the first time since Qunitus had embraced this strange experiment of being a gladiator, he felt a sense of not being in control of events. Slowly, he inched one sandalled foot forward, testing. No response. The crowd murmured, growing restless. Quintus sighed, knowing that he couldn’t draw this out much longer. Soon he would have to take this woman’s blood to slake a thirst as strong as his own, the bloodlust of the mob. Shaking off his indecision, he strode forward more confidently, sword firmly grasped.
“Defend yourself!” he commanded, swinging the sword in a broad stroke that planned to fall just short of her chest.
To his amazement, she didn’t flinch or back away. Barely a narrowing of the eyes betrayed her awareness of his actions. He pulled back his arm and delivered a short thrust towards her abdomen, not a killing blow, but one that would cause her to slowly bleed out. Moving faster than the human eye, she jumped backwards, avoiding his sword. Something flared in his inhuman heart, a hope he’d had no idea he could feel. Only his kin could possibly move so fast, only someone akin to him. Not a Fullblood, or she wouldn’t be moving in direct sunlight, but another of the dhampir? Dared he hope for that?
Quintus opened his mouth to question her, but at that moment she darted forward, bringing both short swords down in a tight x, a move that would have opened him up like a soothsayer’s offering if he’d still been there. He avoided it by the merest fraction of an inch, dodging away. She spun after him in a tight dive, swords flashing. The crowd was silent, watching the two pale figures intently as the dance began in earnest, to and fro across the bleached sand. Quintus felt exhilaration as they lunged and parried, testing each other’s defences. It was only now it was here that he realised how he had longed for an equal, the jaded years of butchery falling away like a sloughed skin. Now that they had the measure of each other, he risked a forward jumping downward slash, moving with the speed of a striking snake. She dodged easily, rolling to the side and delivering a whirlwind of counter thrusts.
“Who are you?!” Quintus yelled as he dodged another quicksilver stab. However this turned out, he had to know.
The woman gave her head an imperceptible shake, rejecting the question. Frustration colouring his thoughts for the first time in years, he charged, trying to force her against the stone blocks of the arena wall. Lightly she flipped over his head, and he managed to parry those stinging swords by mere inches. He swung round to face her and was immediately forced to dodge an incoming scything strike. At the last moment, he realised that he had not pulled back enough, and that the strike was about to gut him like a fish. He locked eyes with the woman, accepting it, knowing that it wouldn’t kill but would completely incapacitate him, inhuman though he was.
Something flickered in her eyes behind the mask, and instead of burning pain, he felt a light swish of air on the skin of his torso as the sword swung past. He glanced down, registering that the arc had changed. She had pulled the stroke at the last second, acting with a control he had not thought possible. Yet doing so had left her defences wide open. Driven by an impulse he did not understand, without hesitation Quintus flipped the sword in his hand and brought the butt of the pommel down full on her helmet.
Silently she fell to the ground as if pole-axed. The bronze mask, its chin-strap broken, rolled away from her head, revealing a waterfall of snow white hair. Quintus heard the collective intake of breath from the arena crowd as he knelt on one knee beside her, studying the youthful smoothness of her white face. Pale as he was, she bore none of the signs he bore which would’ve marked her as a fellow dhampir. White lashes fluttered over her closed eyes. Like and yet unlike, he thought remotely, as he lifted her in his arms, facing the senatorial box. She was as light as a bird, her head hanging back limply so that her white hair brushed his knee.
Through the sun glare Quintus could see the amused face of Senator Aquila gazing down at him. They had an understanding; Quintus fought in the games and brought the senator status, the senator allowed his ‘slave’ free rein. Aquila knew, somewhat, what Quintus was, and relished the secret.
The crowd was breaking into cheers and wolf whistles as Aquila raised his arm, signalling for quiet.
“To you, my most skilled gladiator, I give this gift. This woman whom you have defeated in righteous and honourable combat, shall henceforth be your legal property. Let all witness the generosity of Rome!” Aquila couldn’t resist a subtle wink at the end of this solemn speech. A chorus of cheers greeted his words. Flower petals and baubles rained down on Quintus from the stands.
He ignored them all, bowing once towards the senator before stalking away with his unconscious burden. Wealth and trinkets held no appeal for him, and the Mercuries were always grateful for that, scooping up his discarded offerings as they raked the usually bloody sand. The shadows were welcoming and cool, caressing his head and shoulders as he passed under the arch of the arena atrium. Gladiators bowed their heads as he passed, their gaze following him curiously. One of the arena doctors, a wizened Greek named Xeno who had long outlasted sentimentality, yet still retained the gentle hands of a surgeon, padded after him as Quintus made his way along torchlit corridors to his quarters.
These were better than most, though the trappings of silk and linen meant nothing to him. His one indulgence was the tall window opening out onto a small balcony, which overlooked the arena’s vegetable garden. A small apple tree grew in its far corner, and when the wind was right, the smell of apple blossom wafted into the room on spring evenings.
Quintus laid the woman gently on the narrow bed occupying one wall of the room, and stepped back, allowing the surgeon to bustle forward. He watched impassively as Xeno tentatively probed the woman’s head and neck, before running his hands quickly over her limbs, pinching the fingertips. Finally he removed her sandals and pinched her toes, registering the automatic flinch in reaction.
“Yes, good good.” the surgeon nodded, flashing a nearly toothless smile at Quintus. “A well-gauged blow. She will wake in a few hours with a headache, and should rest for a full day and night after that, but there will be no lasting damage.” He cocked his head, his bright eyes glancing from Quintus to the girl and back again. “Two sides of the same coin, I think, but it seems she got the better deal when it came to looks, no?”
“It would seem so.” Quintus agreed calmly, his arms crossed. Taking the hint, Xeno stood up and let out a short bark of laughter.
“Well then, I’ll leave you. Aii, what a fight!” he grinned as he started for the door, “The worthies of Valeria will be talking of it for many months.”
Xeno inclined his head in a bow as he backed out of the room and pulled the dark oaken door closed. As the sound of his steps faded Quintus walked back to the bed, pulling up the wood and rope chair that stood next to a small table. The Westering sun cast long beams across the table, casting the wooden grain into low relief. An oil lamp gleamed with green as the glass absorbed the sun’s rays, painting the whitewashed walls with translucent colour.
He sat down on the chair, his hand outstretched next to hers as it lay upturned on the linen sheet. Both hands were preternaturally white, the colour of marble. Quintus turned his palm this way and that, noting the ridges of scars and the corded sinewy fingers. By contrast, hers was smooth, with the same soft lustre as a flower’s petals. In all his long years, from his terrible inception, to the path of blood which had led him to this moment, he had never met any who could be called ‘like’ him. His monstrous father had been the closest, and Quintus had rejected him early on in life, vowing to travel a different path.
