Champion in Love (bxb)

CHAPTER 2. Our Jester

"A jester? Marvelous idea, Maximus!" Rufius Fulgentius said. "That's why I keep you on the payroll."

"Your praise means everything to me. Everything!"

Rufius Fulgentius snorted and retreated to his office, repeating, 'he won't fight, ha-hah... the barbarian won't fight... ah-ha-hah', hiccupping and giggling.

"What's so funny?" Victor's hands curled into fists so readily in the face of frustration, I suppressed a chuckle. All I needed was to wait out for his nature to break out. Well, maybe I'd have to tease it out of him just a little, and I rather looked forward to it. 

"We were laughing because you don't have to fight to make us money."

He growled deep in his throat.

This time I didn't hide my amusement. "Let's get you something to eat and put ointment on the chafes before the flesh-rot sets in. Then I'll see what you can do in the training yard."

"I won't fight my brothers." He set his feet wider, like he was planning to dig in the office. His pig-headed stubbornness appealed to me on some level, but the water clock didn't stop dripping. 

"Aha! I knew you were kin to the straw dummies!" I scratched my chin. "What about a wooden pole? Another relative?"

He set his gaze on a fixed point on the wall and stayed silent. 

Disappointment tugged on my gut. Why? I wasn't sure. He had nothing clever to say, on the contrary. On the contrary... "Let's go, rookie. Time's wasting. I promise, I won't make you fight a human...yet."

***

Our training yard was oval, sixty-three paces across at its longest. Underfoot, gray sand crunched. Gray sun hid behind gray clouds. The drizzle hadn't reached the ground yet, but it wouldn't take long. The moisture in the air intensified the scent of leather, sweat and straw. I inhaled it with pleasure.

"Welcome to my backyard," I said and grinned. I wasn't joking—my apartment in the city was for sleeping. This was where I truly lived. 

Victor grunted, pretending to study the walls. What he wanted to do though was to watch the two dozen men I trained for Rufius Fulgentius. They were sparing in groups of two or four around a great pile of marble torsos, legs and less identifiable spoil. The sculptors were happy for me to haul their waste away; and I had the most stylish obstacle courses and free weights in Fidelium.

Every time I intercepted Victor's gaze, he swiveled it away, but he couldn't help it. It flickered back to the sparring. Like a virgin at an orgy, for Mithras' sake! 

"No harm in looking," I told him.

Victor didn't break his sulky silence, not even to protest being caught, but he studied the yard openly. It was a tiny win, but I would take it. I just wished my students gave us a better show. While I slathered salves onto Victor's cuts and bruises, most of them relaxed too much. They slouched, failed to protect vulnerable areas, softened in the middle... in one word, a lanista's nightmare.

"Tat! Tat! Mithras' balls on a spit! What are you thinking?"

My yell came at the same time as one of the slackers paid for his laxity. Junius—really, he was my best—cut the legs from under him with a stroke of his training sword. The wretch went down, yelping, cradling his bruised ankles.

"Were it a real sword, you'd be a cripple." I walked between the groups in wide strides, pointing out the worst three. "You, you and you... on me today."

They had the gall to look surprised.

"Did you think I was too busy to notice your idiocy? Or, perhaps, you hope your heads are so thick, they'd stop a sword? "