Champion in Love (bxb)

CHAPTER 35. The Old Emperor

I didn't see Victor in the weeks prior to the Grand Final of the Games marking Claudius Caesar's return, but I dreamt about him. These were the kind of dreams where everyone dies while you fall into the void, flailing in protest. Twice, I dreamt a happier dream: the arena froze and Victor walked hand-in-hand with me toward the Appian Peaks bathed by sunset.

When Victor marched onto the sand to meet me, I tuned out the noise—for the Colosseum was packed—and became all eyes.

Victor squinted at the pale November sun. He lost weight. His cheek sunk over missing teeth. Otherwise, he looked well.

What made me cringe, however, was that he carried twin swords and wore light armor, as if I hadn't told him enough times to fight in the shield-wall style.

"You hoping to beat me at my game?"

"I promised you, that I would win your stupid tournament. I will and I will do it with your weapons."

Damn his stubbornness to Hades! He wanted to conquer me because Fidelium celebrated Claudius Caesar's triumph over the very last of the Inimicus' Rebellion. His rebellion. He hated us, and he hated me.

I saluted him with my blades. "You look well."

"Hoped they softened me up to make your job easier?" He was lisping, but sounded alert.

I didn't scoff despite the sour taste in my mouth. My loyal fan, the guard, kept his word. That was something. I focused on that, rather on what I had to do on the sand.

"No," I said. "I didn't."

Victor shook his head slightly. "I could never decide if I love or hate your brand of honor. Why did you do all this?"

Because I wanted his fate in my hands. "You deserve to die fighting a Fidelis."

"You believe that you'll win." He shook his head incredulously. Did I imagine a trace of affection in the gesture? Was I just hoping it was there? "Is there a limit to your ego, Maximus?"

Instead of reply, I hailed Claudius Caesar and Messalina Augusta in their green-and-gold box. "Ave Imperator, morituri te salutant!"

But I wasn't looking at the Emperor and the Empress. I wasn't even looking at Victor, who sketched a mocking bow toward the royals and said nothing.

Instead, my eyes found my favorite place in the stands. Today, Quintus fidgeted in it. The boy's neck stretched out so far that his head nearly popped off. He met my glance and bit his lip. Before the anxiety got the better of him, he bent his arm at the elbow, so his fist would come level with his ear—our signal.

"Oh, I will win," I whispered.

If my eyes stung with tears, so what? Quintus had earned that, and I was a louse for asking him to help me. Knowing that he would be punished as a run-away slave if he was caught, that he couldn't confess his true mission to anyone, he had intercepted Claudius Caesar for a private conversation before the Emperor entered Fidelium in glory. This would be a feat for anyone. For a half-blood it should have been impossible. But Quintus did it, because I asked him to.

Now Quintus signaled to me that everything was ready.

More importantly, he was the testimony that some others, even if they were few, believed as I did. That love held value. That a man could—even should—do the unthinkable in its name. Let others call it a folly, for it was mad, for sure. Let them judge. Let them exist in contentment. I stood firm, because it was also sublime.

"I'll win," I said, bowing my head to Quintus.

"Look who's repeating himself now!" Victor lifted his swords to an en-garde position. The two blue pools—his eyes—called to me so strongly I was ready to dive into their depth. I mimicked his move purely on instinct.