In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal Read Online Free PDF Page A

be a great champion.” He let the next sentence slide easily. “He could perchance win the Grand Melee.”
    His heart pounding, Alession left his words there as prettier bait than his body. The Empress wanted the boy loved and adored before he was broken. Alession would see to it that happened. Better the boy be broken in the arena than me. That was the truth of his existence. The extent of his “love” for her.
    What did he care for one novice retiarii? Slaves existed to make their masters’ lives better. Lucan of House Vulpinius was just such a slave.
    The light of desire darkening Stratos’s eyes said he shared that thought. Victory, glory, wealth. It was no small honor to be the master of the Melee champion. “I already have a trainer in mind.” His smile widened cruelly. “Hektor Actaeon.”
    Alession hid his shock. Hektor Actaeon had once been Stratos’s plaything, until Stratos had tired of him. And now, the quaestor wanted to hire Hektor to train the boy?
    His mood definitely souring now, Alession gave Stratos his most withering stare. “You were warned against further tampering with Hektor Actaeon.”
    Stratos had the good graces to at least look offended. “Tampering? My good consul, you wound me. I seek only a good pairing for my slave eternal.”
    Something in his tone chilled Alession, and the sudden desire to quit the darkness of the Claim for the brightness of his council chambers seized him fiercely. If Stratos meddled once more with Hektor Actaeon, he would find himself answering to the Empress’s justice. Alession need not worry. Stratos was too much of a coward to risk death as a Spectacle in the arena.
    “I’ll leave you to it, then.” Alession slipped into the shadows, leaving Stratos pacing before the dungeon door, muttering to himself in the gloom, planning glories and triumphs at the cost of Lucan’s suffering.
    Alession reveled in the suffering of other men because he had to.
    Stratos did so because he wanted to.

Chapter One
    FOR THE EMPRESS
    Arena, the land of the Desert Kings
    Ruled by a blind Empress
    Whose lust for blood
    Was legend and lore
    —Iona Lucia, House of Lucia, the Artists
    The Empress had decreed that today’s Spectacle would be sans mercy, and by late afternoon, her Grand Theatre ran red with blood. The gore was so thick even the fresh sand that the cripples strewed about could not cover all the carnage. Between bouts, the bodies of the glorious dead were hooked and dragged by the jackal-helmed priests of the Doomsayer. In back alleys, the vanquished would be stripped, their armor auctioned to relic hunters, leeches, and lepers alike. Great shares of bronze quadrans and sextans , and even the occasional denarius would fill the coffers of the Doomsayer’s Fane tonight.
    Yes, the dead were the purview of the Doomsayer, but Hektor of House Actaeon was still very much alive. At least for the moment.
    Five gladiators advanced on him, hemming him in with bloodied weapons. Sweat streaked their muscles, and they took mincing steps on the burning-hot sand. Hektor’s shortspear lay outside their circle, tangled in the weighted net of his last opponent. This time, he had been deprived of his longspear. Damn the Empress and her festering handicaps!
    And woe to her gladiators when she grew bored.
    Hektor ignored the scorching heat that strung his muscles with fatigue and the sweat that stung his eyes. His arm ached from the weight of his tower shield. He had lost his helmet in the last bout, and his hair had come loose from its thong. Now it hung like a black mane, cascading down over his shoulders to heighten his savage appeal. The masses loved it. Their cheers rose to deafening thunder as they came to their feet for the finale of today’s Spectacle. For them, the extra exertion of their furor was no concern. High in the stands, beneath the great crimson awning, they were shielded from the sun’s oppression.
    Exposed in the middle of the amphitheatre, Hektor was not so