Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

Midsummer, 53 BC

It wasn't until the small hours of the morning that I was able to return to my room. I would need to move quickly if I wanted to get beyond the city walls before daybreak.

After the gladiator match, the guests had mingled for a while longer, trailing home in twos and threes until all that remained were those so drunk they couldn't even find their feet, much less their houses. I would need to move carefully.

I was careful not to rush to my room—to appear as worn down and bedraggled as the other slaves. But as soon as I crossed the threshold and shut the door behind me, I became a whirlwind of movement.

I lit the small stub of candle sitting on the floor and knelt beside my pallet, feeling along the edge for the seam I had created. Nestled amongst the straw were the few things I had managed to steal to aid in my escape. A small dagger I had lifted from a vendor at the market several days ago, some of the hard biscuits we were rationed, bits of cheese taken from the pantry.

And an old toga of Mistress' I was supposed to be mending.

It wasn't much, but I only needed it to get me out of Rome. After that, I would have to hope the countryside kept me fed.

I had barely popped the first thread when the door to my room banged open and a man came stumbling in. Cursing every god I could think of, I leapt to my feet.

The door slammed and the man whirled, lunging at the door. He collided with the wood just as the lock clicked. He slammed both fists against it and yelled, "I'm to be returned by daybreak. Your master has no right!"

"Oh, you'll be returned, gladiator." I recognized the voice of Gemellus, one of the guards. "My mistress wished to give you a small gift for your performance." There was a nasty chuckle, then the sound of retreating footsteps.

"Puffed up bastard," the gladiator hissed. He shoved his shoulder against the door, but the lock only rattled. Finally, he turned, freezing when his eyes landed on me. The surprise melted into disdain. "A gift," he muttered. "Right."

I didn't know what to do. The dagger was still hidden away in the pallet. Even if I did manage to get to it, what good would it do? I'd just watched him fight a few short hours ago. He was much stronger than me, lean muscle corded over ever inch of his body. Bile rose in my throat as I realized how defenseless I was.

The gladiator scoffed as I shrank back against the wall. "No offense," he said with a sigh as he lowered himself to the ground, back resting against the cool stone, "but you're not really the type that interests me."

I blinked a few times, not understanding at first. The gladiator leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. The bruise on his chest was now purple and black, spreading out from the point where the shield had hit him. He lightly probed at it, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow.

When he didn't move for a few long seconds, I relaxed, eyes darting toward my pallet, then to the door. Hatred bubbled in me. At the master, at the gladiator currently standing between me and freedom, at Rome in general.

"There are other girls," I said stiffly, sickened by myself but desperate enough to say the words.

A smile twitched at his mouth as he shook his head.

"Or do you prefer men?" I crossed my arms, wanting any way to rid myself of this new complication. "Either way, I'm sure something can be arranged."

The gladiator opened his eyes, nose wrinkling in amusement. "No," he said with a laugh. "No, I don't prefer men." He heaved a sigh, wincing. "Mostly I just want to rest. It's been a long day and I'm tired."