Champion in Love (bxb)

CHAPTER 1. The Rookie

I am Maximus, the Champion of Champions. And yes, I defeated the crowd's new favorite, Victor. But the true testament to my greatness is that he lived for so long.

The day I met Victor—who was yet to receive this proud name from our Empress—feels like it was yesterday.

The owner of our gladiatorial school, Rufius Fulgentius, brought him in, fresh from the slave market. Flushed with excitement, he didn't scoot away to his office. He squealed for me to 'Come, quick!' and 'See what I have!' the moment he stepped into the gallery separating the training yard from the living quarters and the gymnasium.

I thundered in, so flushed from the fighting, that my sandals pounded the dirt floor into rock.

Once I laid my eyes on the rookie, however, the scowl melted right off my face. Sweat cooled between my shoulder blades. A few goosebumps might have popped up here and there.

Before me stood everything a lanista prays for. Nay, lives for.

Yes to the bulging muscles on the back of Victor's arms and thighs! Yes to the width of his shoulders! And a hip-hip-hurrah! for his skull-crushing hands. He even sported wicked scars underneath his fresh slave brand for added fierceness.

"Welcome to my school, rookie," I said. "I'm Maximus and I shall forge you into the champion of the arena." And a crowning achievement of my career.

Victor didn't stir. His skin and hair were blue, typical of the barbarians native to Nanciscor; other than that, they didn't look much different from us. 

Hmm, did he speak our civilized tongue? Rufius Fulgentius wouldn't have grabbed him, if he didn't. Plus, I sensed resistance in the stiffness of his shoulders. He had to understand my words to resent them.

"Fidelium lusts for a perfect man. A perfect killer. A perfect lover," I said louder than before. "The ordinary citizens crowd the stands of the arena looking for him among the lesser gladiators."

I half-turned, showing our training yard. Today, the sun shone on its gray sand, if only a single ray, meager and pale. However, my students' training swords clanked against one another with vigor. As if to help me make my point, my best shouted in triumph, downing his partner. The loser rolled, released his grasp on the sword and let it fly wide. It ended up crashing into the walls, surrounding the yard.

"Tat! Tat!" I hollered at the rest of the guys, who stopped to clap the textbook take-down. "Back to it, slackers!"

Victor towered next to me, rock-solid and silent. His hand, modestly covering his privates, didn't clench. Not a single spark of glee danced in his blue eyes.

My gut protested this big fat nothing. The training yard was as loyal a copy of the Fidelium Colosseum as Rufius Fulgentius could afford. Actually, a loyal copy of a loyal copy, for what wasn't a copy in our Empire? But one didn't need to see the original Roman arenas on Earth, if he had arena-lust in him.

Mithras' bulls, what was wrong with my future champion? Why was his face impassive and his wide chest barely rose and fell with even breath?

On that chest, the slave's brand sat dead-center of the right pectoral. The hair was shaved off in a neat rectangle. Every letter even-edged, burned into blue flesh to a regimented depth, not more to torture, not less out of false pity. The 'F' of the P.U.F. was crusted in indigo of dried blood, but not inflamed. It showed pride in craftsmanship. So... a fresh batch of the rebels at the Imperial frontier? Battle-shocked?

"You can put your clothes back on." I pointed at the tunic and pants that lay folded by Victor's feet. He obeyed, but didn't rush it.

I nodded my head, following his unhurried movements. The sack-like garment looked prettier on him than togas do on the lesser men, and beauty came in handy in our ancient profession. "The gladiator is so good at love and war, that the high and mighty pay him to perform either act."