EXCERPTS FROM FACETS OF GOD'S LOVE: A Collection of Short Stories
By Erina Sinclair
Chapter One
“Stand!” Nama commanded the figure before him. He swept a long, swarthy arm around the practice ground and walkway leading from the sands to the entrance. Six guards lay dead. Two more flanked him, sides heaving and sweaty, eyes thirsty for blood. “I think you’ve made your point.”
The culprit crouched low in a fighting stance, fists up, feet planted wide, back facing the stone wall of the gladiatorial training ground. He bared his teeth and hissed like a wild animal, tossing his black, filth-matted locks over his bare, tattooed shoulders.
Nama sneered. The little rodent actually thought victory was possible even though he swayed from blood loss. He favored the idiot with a sardonic smile. The crouched figure rocked forward with a rasping gurgle, his eyes rolling back in his head as he collapsed in a heap. Behind him huddled the trembling form of a young woman. As she darted forward to help her companion, Nama waved his guards back. He swept the little figure with a harsh glare.
The woman stood slowly and faced him without a word or a twitch. Her gray eyes made their way up his frame as he stood with his arms folded across his chest and his huge hands balled into fists. Finally, she met his eyes. He returned her gaze with all the ferocity of his training as a gladiator. She trembled ever so slightly under his glare.
“Please,” she quavered. “Spare him.”
The sneer evaporated from Nama’s face. He arched his eyebrow. Swahili? He cocked his head. How did she know his mother-tongue? Why did she not beg or cry or plead? Why the simple everyday request? A request so preposterous that he almost laughed aloud. But Swahili?
“Spare whom?” he addressed the woman in kind as if he didn’t already know the answer.
She inclined her head to the figure on the ground beneath her. “He’s hurt badly and—and he only meant to protect me. Please don’t kill him.”
Again, she offered only the simple request, as if Nama was someone she knew quite well...and trusted. Her voice shook with the aftereffects of her flight, not fear. Small wonder at that. They’d just been chased all over the Great School of Rome, up and down stairwells, through storage rooms, down corridors and across catwalks before they had been finally cornered. A flea and a wildcat.
“What about you?”
The woman’s expression did not change.
“Your little Briton here must be completely out of his mind, or he would not have scaled the walls of the school to get in. The trainees here are all trying to find a way out.”
“How do you know he’s a Briton?”
“By his tattoos.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
“Oh, no,” he sneered. “Not just yet.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you intend to do?”
Nama grinned.
Tears started to her eyes. “Please spare him.”
The little mite had a one-track mind. “Why should I?” he spat.
“We meant no harm.”
Nama barked a laugh and both guards started. “I have six men dead. You call that no harm?”
“Your men kidnapped me and then chased both of us when Zerneboc tried to free me. He fought back out of instinct.”
“Then he’ll make an excellent gladiator,” he said with a shrug. “I may take slaves from wherever I so desire. Your friend committed a crime when he scaled that wall, and the sentence calls for his death. Would you have me break the law?”
“I would have you show mercy,” she replied without a shred of defiance. “Unless…”
“Unless what?” he challenged.
She bowed her head. “Unless that is not in your power to extend.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Then we have no choice but to die.” She lifted her head and, after a momentary glance at the sword that hung at his side, looked him in the eye. “Be quick, but please, don’t make him kill anyone.”
Nama’s eyebrows shot up for a second time, and he shook his head in disbelief. Was it courage or stupidity that made her so quiet, so accepting of her fate? They stood regarding one another for several long moments.
“What does she want, my lord?” one guard inquired.
“You heard her. She pleads for his life,” he replied.
The guard snorted in derision and yanked his sword from its scabbard. “Let me at them, my lord!”
“No.”
“But…” The guard pointed his weapon in consternation at the throatless body of a fellow soldier lying nearby.
Nama leveled a dark, withering stare on the unfortunate subordinate. The shorter man shrank down into his breastplate and withdrew his sword without further comment. Nama turned back to the woman.
“You are both spared,” he said at last in Greek.
She heaved a sigh. “Thank you.”
Nama stared at her and then scowled. “His arm will take time to heal. In the meantime, I suggest you pray to whatever gods you worship that it has been rendered useless, or by the Fates, he will be in the arena as a berserker with you tied to a stake as fodder. As I said, no one invades without punishment. You are both now my slaves. One small infraction of my commands can and will send you to the arena. You will do nothing, say nothing, think nothing unless I tell you to, is that clear?”
She bowed her head and nodded.
“Where are you from?”
The woman named a small Roman port on the northwestern Greek coast.
“You now belong to the Imperial School. What is your name?”
“May I tend to him?” she asked.
“I asked you a question, woman,” Nama demanded. “I could give you a name, but I doubt you’d appreciate it.”
“I am called Maus, my lord,” she replied at last. “Please. May I tend to him? He bleeds.”
“As do my men,” he snarled.
Without taking his eyes from her face, Nama snapped his fingers at the guard on his right. “Gallus, send someone to clean up this mess and then take her and her companion to the infirmary. Let her deal with him. I don’t need any more dead bodies on my hands. See that she has all she requires.” To the woman, he said, “Go. Take what you need and keep him under control.”
Without a second glance, he swept away.
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