Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

Midsummer, 53 BC

I sat frozen, eyes glued to his hands as he extracted first the dagger and toga, then the food I had squirreled away. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth and the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight made his eyes seem hollow.

He twirled the dagger in his hand, light flickering off the iron blade. I tracked the movement when he flipped it once, twice, three times into the air, catching it alternately by the blade and hilt.

Swallowing against my dry mouth, I silently extended my hand. The gladiator gave me a level stare before flipping the dagger again and offering it to me hilt-first. I snatched it from him and lunged forward, knocking him backwards onto the ground. My knee dug into the bruise on his chest and I pressed the dagger against his throat.

Then I stopped. I couldn't help it. The dagger pressed against the scarred skin of his throat, but I couldn't make myself push it any deeper.

Through gritted teeth, he asked, "What were you going to do about your tattoo?"

My eyes flicked down to my arm, where I could just see the edge of the tattoo that marked me a slave. That moment of distraction cost me.

The gladiator bucked up, grabbing my wrist and levering the knife from his throat. His hips twisted to the side and I found myself slammed into the ground, gasping for breath as my lungs struggled against the sudden weight crushing my chest. The gladiator applied pressure to my wrist, steadily increasing it until I snarled in pain and dropped the dagger.

"That wasn't very nice," he said in my ear. "If I let you up, are you going to try to stab me again?"

I had already proven I couldn't. I shook my head, and the gladiator lifted himself off me, snatching up the dagger before I could even begin to reach for it. Keeping a wary eye on me, he crossed back toward the door. Horror flooded my veins with ice, freezing me in place.

All he did, though, was return to his seat there, idly flipping the dagger into the air again.

As I sat back up, he rubbed at his bruise, giving me a reproachful look. He pointed the tip of the dagger at me. "How were you going to get past the guard at the door? How were you going to get out of Rome?"

I frowned, crossing my arms over my chest. "What does it matter to you?"

"Were you going to wear that?" he asked, gesturing toward the toga. "Hope no one wondered why a Gaulish woman was parading about in the clothes of a free citizen?"

It infuriated me that he had immediately picked out the weakest point of my plan. Romans had blue eyes, but my fair skin and pale blonde hair was sure to draw suspicion. 

When I didn't answer, he nodded sagely. "You know what happens to runaways, don't you?"

"I would rather die than let him touch me again," I snarled, shocked even as the words passed my lips. I didn't need to explain myself to him. But the words just kept coming. "Even if they catch me and torture me, I can hope that I'll be so mutilated he won't want me anymore."

The gladiator had his head bowed, but I could see enough of his face to be surprised by his expression. Pure wrath twisted his aquiline features.

Then, he tilted his head, expression turning thoughtful. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet mine. They glittered like emeralds in the candlelight. "Do you want him dead?"

All I could do was blink. The gladiator stared at me, waiting for an answer. He couldn't possibly mean what I thought he did...could he?

"I just want to leave," I whispered.

The gladiator pushed off the door to crouch just in front of me. The knife still glittered in his hand. Slowly, he grasped my chin, tilting my head back so I was forced to look at him. "That isn't what I asked."