Page 15 of Deliverance
Cervantes could see that his plan might just work as both men seemed eager to know what good news he had to share. “I spoke with the Dominus a few days ago and he hinted that he might be ready to give you the grandest of rewards for your years of service and entertainment,” he lied.
Titus’ eyes widened. “Do you mean this?”
Cervantes nodded. “He did not specify what that reward would be… but we can only hope it would mean your freedom.” He hoped his lie would be enough to persuade the gladiator to break his ritual just this once.
“This is wonderful news, doctore, gratitude,” Titus said.
“So, let us toast to what could be,” Cervantes said. His plan worked and the three clanked their goblets together before they downed the small amount of wine. He gathered the goblets, then sighed. “I am afraid that I have news not so grand.”
“Can it wait until after my match, doctore?” Titus asked.
“Your opponent tonight will be Mateo,” Cervantes stated.
“No, why?” Titus asked, his face contorted with a mixture of confusion and rage.
Mateo’s smile, the one he had for Titus’ good fortune, now faded, replaced by a blank canvas as he absorbed Cervantes’ words.
“It is what has been arranged. The crowd shall have its grand match,” Cervantes said.
“This is not right,” Titus argued.
Cervantes reached out, grabbing Titus’ chin in a powerful grip. “You forget your place, slave. Just because you shove your cock in his ass does not make him exempt from facing anyone our Dominus deems fit to fight and or die in the arena.” He gave the gladiator a little shove as he released his chin. “We are all but slaves, do not force me to remind you again.”
Titus swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. He then nodded. “I understand my place, doctore.”
“Good. And you?” Cervantes presented the question to Mateo, who had been silent.
“As you said, doctore, we are slaves. Our fates are not our own,” he said, then he rose and walked toward the door that faced the arena.
Titus joined him and the two shared words that Cervantes couldn’t hear. He felt the least he could do would be to give them their final moment before thrusting them into battle. The horn blared for the announcement of the final match, and the time had come. He walked over to both men, handing them their weapons.
Cervantes looked them both in their eyes. “May the best man win. May the gods bless you.”
“Thank you, doctore,” they said in unison.
“Honor house Rama,” Cervantes said before opening the door for them.
“Yes, doctore,” they said, which was tradition.
Mateo appeared first, stepping out as his name was announced to the roar of the crowd. He raised his weapons in the air, pumping the energy of the crowd up to another level. Next, Titus walked onto the sands at the mention of his name and the crowd went crazy. Cervantes watched as Titus egged the audience on. Soon, the drug would take effect and he wondered would the crowd who cheered for their Champion now, also show him mercy when the time came? For the first time in a long time, Cervantes hated the Games.
CHAPTER SIX
Mateo’s heart was beating a mile a minute as he watched Titus work the crowd as he always did. He had never felt so nervous, almost to the point of vomiting the delicious meal he’d foolishly consumed earlier. His stomach rolled and he swallowed hard to force back the nausea. He could feel beads of sweat running down his temple, dripping onto his shoulder. This was the moment he feared, for he knew he was no match for Titus. And after hearing that Titus may be freed soon, he knew the gladiator would not spare him. Not with such a reward hanging in the balance.
He looked up at the gods who were watching from their position of privilege. Kijani’s expression had never been so full of joy, whereas Eloy’s had never been so full of anguish. Even Odessa seemed to be pleased with the match’s pairing, whereas Simeon’s expression mirrored that of Eloy’s. Mateo turned away, he couldn’t look at Eloy, not now when his life hung in the balance. It was his greatest fear that he would die in this arena before he got to taste the life Eloy was promising. As much danger as he had been in the first time he had stepped onto the sands, never had he felt such despair and hope at the same time.
He fixed his gaze upon Titus now, the man whose bed he shared. The man who had trained him better than even their doctore. The man who had told him he loved him several times, though, he knew in his heart, the feeling wasn’t mutual. Mateo didn’t love Titus, not like Titus wanted him to. Always, for Mateo, Titus was a way of survival, only because he knew Titus’ affections came with heavy conditions. Mateo had played the role Titus wanted of him, and they had become friends, but never lovers as far as Mateo was concerned. Just friends with benefits.
Still, his heart ached at what was to come. Either Titus would kill him or he would kill Titus. Could he kill Titus? The gladiator was highly skilled and never made the same mistake twice. They had trained daily and knew much of each other’s fighting strategies. This wouldn’t be like any other fight Mateo or Titus had ever had.
Mateo gripped the hilts of his swords tighter as Titus approached to the roar of the crowd. Titus stood before him now, all pretenses of love gone from his eyes and replaced with sheer determination.
“What I do to you now is not personal, Mateo. It is survival. May the gods be merciful to us both,” Titus said. “And may the crowd be merciful as well.”
Mateo licked his lips and swallowed hard, then nodded. “May the gods’ blessings be upon us.”
With that, Titus nodded, then attacked with the same ferociousness Mateo had witnessed him display against all his other opponents. Mateo barely had enough time to block the swing of Titus’ mighty sword. The crowd erupted into applause and cheers as the fight commenced. Mateo rolled out of the way of another powerful swing, then blocked with both swords to protect his head from another blow. Titus was relentless in his assault, as if he and Mateo had not been friends at all. The memory of Mateo’s body beneath his held no sway over him now. Nor Mateo’s lips or gentle strokes, none of that mattered except the freedom he’d been promised. Or the possibility of it if he survived.
