Whisper (Riley Bloom 4)

His actions causing Messalina to stiffen beside me, as I remained parked between them, aware of something stirring inside me, poking, prodding, fighting to get my attention, and yet my head felt so foggy, all I could do was run my hands over the deep lavender folds of my dress and lose myself in admiring it.

“Theocoles has shown nothing but the greatest honor and bravery,” Messalina said, her voice laced with an edge that was impossible to miss. “His brother Lucius means everything to him, and what Theocoles has been able to accomplish on his brother’s behalf is nothing short of greatness. And I, for one, believe he should be commended for that. No matter how this day ends, he shall not be forgotten, for surely that would be considered no less than a crime.”

“Tell you what—if he lives, I’ll be the first to commend him,” Dacian said, paying no mind to Messalina’s tone, much less the stricken expression his words left on her face. “And if not …” He grinned, glancing between the two of us as he slid a finger clean across the width of his neck.

“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see then, won’t we?” Messalina’s eyes darted between us, her response eliciting a sarcastic chuckle from Dacian, and silence from me.

I was gone.

Lost in a fog I couldn’t even begin to work my way through.

Feeling torn, pulled in two different directions, as though caught in the middle of some crazy, invisible tug-of-war, with no way of knowing who pulled at my strings, much less which side I should favor.

“Aurelia? You okay?” Messalina leaned toward me, her face a mask of concern.

Aurelia. That was me. That’s what everyone called me.

Or was it? I was no longer sure.

Messalina placed a finger under my chin and lifted it toward hers as she gazed directly into my eyes. Fussing at my hair, pretending to rearrange a stray curl, she brushed a cool finger across the width of my brow—the feel of her touch instantly lifting the fog, allowing the sun to break through, as everything sprang back into view.

“Are you okay?” she repeated, her gaze fixed on mine.

I gazed all around, taking in the enormity of the arena, the tens of thousands of cheering spectators—sure that each and every one of them would do anything to trade places with me. Sure that each and every one of them longed to claim a place among such luxury and comfort—surrounded by mountains of food, an endless supply of drink, keeping company with rich and entitled Roman nobility—not to mention the insanely cute boy who sat right beside me.

I returned my gaze to hers, my voice filled with the extent of my gratitude when I said, “Everything’s great. Everything’s just absolutely perfect. And I have you to thank.”

11

I watched the procession that marked the start of the games in confusion. Surprised by the way the crowd remained strangely quiet, almost solemn, until Dacian explained how that would soon change. It was merely the official portion of the day, he told me. The time when weapons were inspected, a dead emperor was remembered, and the gladiators were all introduced—allowing the crowd a chance to take them all in, knowing full well that by the day’s end more than half of them would never stand again.

When it was over, the gates dragged open once more, setting a pack of ferocious jungle cats loose in the arena. At first roaring in fear, unsure what to make of their new surroundings, it wasn’t long before they adapted, their instincts kicked in, and they busied themselves with stalking their prey—devouring one poor, unfortunate prisoner after another.

The crowd cheered in response, stomping and clapping in glee as they watched a succession of people get shredded and gutted and ripped into small, bloodied bits—pitted in a fight they could never, ever win.

That same cheering failing to cease when those very same cats were later hunted and killed by gladiators who specialized in such skills.

Until finally—after hours of unrelenting blood and gore—after hours of watching unfathomable death and violence—it was time for the gladiators to take center stage. And I found myself so desensitized by that point, so completely unshakable, it wasn’t long before I became as entranced as any other spectator—cheering and jeering right along with them.

Giving thumbs up whenever a battle was tied, and I found both parties worthy of living—giving thumbs down when I wasn’t entertained quite enough, when I demanded someone be held accountable for the lack of amusement—to die a grisly death to atone for my boredom.

Sometimes shouting, “Live!” other times shouting, “Kill!” depending on my mood. I was consumed with the power I held. Aware that I was only one among many, that in the end, it was the emperor’s decision to grant life or death, and yet, was he not bound to the whims of his subjects? Was he not swayed by their need to be appeased from the drudgery of their lives with a show of bread and circus?

I reveled in being part of that decision, in knowing my vote helped to decide just who was allowed to live another day—and just who was sentenced to die.

And when the heavy iron gates swung wide once again, and Theocoles thundered into the arena, it quickly became clear why he was so favored.

Theocoles didn’t walk, neither did he run, but rather he strutted, sauntered—arms raised high above his head, his sword and shield waving in acknowledgment of his fifty thousand most admiring fans, leaving no doubt that he loved them, just as much as they loved him.

The stadium practically shaking with the rumble of stomping feet and clapping hands, I watched as Theocoles turned, acknowledging every section of the stadium, circling the wave of praise much as the earth circles the warmth of the sun.

The applause significantly dimming when his opponent, Urbicus, entered to a chorus of hisses and boos—and though he appeared equally strong, equally fierce, equally determined to hold up his end—it was clear from the start that he lacked the innate fire and charisma of the champion gladiator, and because of it, the crowd would never be swayed to his side. He just couldn’t compete with Theocoles’ unique brand of magnetism—his deadly combination of bravery, skill, showmanship, and undeniable movie star appeal.

Much like everyone around me, I slid to the edge of my seat, watching in fascination, captivated as the battle began. Urbicus put up a very good fight, though not good enough—he spent most of his energy deflecting Theocoles’ well-aimed blows that left him so bloodied and battered, his strength quickly seeped out of him, while Theocoles waged on, his own wounds appearing shallow and superficial at most.

Despite his rival’s weakening state—despite Theocoles’ numerous chances to lead Urbicus to his final rest—the battle waged on, and on, and on—with Theocoles refusing to end it, determined to give the crowd what they came for, and more. He continued to pounce, and leap, and inflict wound after gaping wound upon his victim until Urbicus’ skin resembled a fringe of blood-soaked ribbons.

I watched in a combination of amazement and revulsion, wondering at which point Theocoles would decide to end it so he could collect his winnings, thereby freeing his brother, himself. Yet I was so caught up in the spectacle, I dreaded the moment it would end.