Page 10

Chapter Ten

V ictor

The mechanical beast Domina calls a “truck” hurtles through the night at impossible speeds, its steady rumble doing nothing to calm my churning stomach. Strange lights flash past faster than I can process. Behind us, another vehicle follows at a careful distance—Tony’s men, making sure we don’t deviate from our assigned path.

Nothing about this makes sense. The vehicle we ride in defies understanding—a chariot with no horses, moving faster than the swiftest courier. The lights outside pulse with unnatural brightness, illuminating buildings taller than the greatest temples of Rome. Dominus’ explanation about my ship being “blown off course” grows thinner with each passing moment.

Where in all the gods’ territories could we possibly be? No foreign land I’ve ever heard about has such wonders. Not Judea, not Gaul, not even the distant realms of Parthia or India that merchants spoke of in awed tones. The air itself tastes wrong—tinged with unfamiliar scents that burn my nostrils.

And the people… their clothing, their speech patterns, the casual way they interact with these mechanical marvels. If we truly were in some distant province of the Empire, wouldn’t there be some familiar touches? A statue of the Emperor, or household gods, perhaps, or at least architecture that follows Roman principles?

Something deeper is happening here, something Dominus —and now Domina —aren’t telling me. My instincts, honed through years in the arena, scream that I’m being deceived. Yet what purpose would such an elaborate deception serve? And if not deception, then what possible explanation remains?

I steal a glance at Domina’s profile as she drives. Whatever the truth, I sense she carries it like a burden. There’s guilt behind her eyes when she looks at me, though she tries to hide it. Perhaps in time, she’ll trust me enough to reveal what she knows.

For now, I must observe, learn, and prepare. Father’s teachings on patience serve me well in this strange place where nothing is as it seems.

Domina’s knuckles are white as her hands grip the wheel that steers this truck. Even without the translation device, her worry is clear in every line of her body. The crime boss’s visit to the cabin changed everything. His cold eyes assessed me like a lanista examining new stock, measuring my worth in coins not yet earned.

Many hours later, Domina says, “Almost there,” her voice tight. The device in my ear renders her words into Latin, but I’m beginning to recognize certain phrases even without it. The way she glances in the mirror every few seconds tells me she’s as aware of our shadows as I am.

This Tony Esposito reminds me of certain patricians who frequented the ludus —men who wrapped their cruelty in civilization’s veneer. His careful manners and clothing, more elegant than Dominus’ , didn’t hide the predator’s calculation in his eyes. The way Domina tensed at his words spoke volumes about his reputation.

The truck slows, turning onto a quieter street. A two-story building looms ahead, its front windows dark but a light burning above. Is this her “gym”? Is it short for the Greek word gymnasium?

“Home sweet home,” she mutters, but there’s no sweetness in her tone. The vehicle following us continues past, but we both know they’ll circle back. We’re being given the illusion of privacy, nothing more.

The inside of the gym steals my breath. Strange machines of metal and cables fill the space, their purpose clearly tied to building strength, though their methods escape me. A raised platform in the center must be for sparring, though its ropes and padded floor differ from any training ground I’ve known. I’ve only fought on sand.

“The apartment’s upstairs,” she says, leading me toward a back staircase. “It’s small, but…” She trails off, that worried crease appearing between her brows again.

The stairs challenge my still-weak legs, but I refuse to show fatigue. Tony’s visit made it clear—I must regain my strength quickly. The stakes are higher than mere survival now. My domina and dominus’s futures somehow depend on my ability to fight, though the details remain murky.

The living space above Domina’s gym is very different from the dwelling I’ve been living in. Everything gleams with impossible cleanliness. The main room combines cooking space and living area, all of it smaller than a wealthy Roman’s bathing room, yet containing more wonders than the finest villa.

“Bathroom’s through there.” She points to a door. “And that’s… that’s the bedroom.” Her cheeks flush slightly as she glances at the large bed visible through the doorway. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Impossible, Domina .” The word comes out sharper than appropriate, but the thought of taking her bed is unthinkable. “I will sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You need proper rest to heal—”

“You should keep your bed.” I straighten to my full height, ignoring protesting muscles. “A slave does not steal his domina’s comfort.”

Her face does something complicated—pain and frustration warring with something softer. “You’re not… this isn’t…” She stops, takes a breath. “The couch is too small for you. The floor would undo all your recovery progress.”

“Still, I cannot—”

“This isn’t a request.” Her voice carries the authority of someone used to being obeyed, but her eyes betray concern. “As your… as your domina , I’m ordering you to take the bed.”

The formal phrasing catches me off guard. She’s learning to use my own customs against me, but her obvious discomfort with claiming ownership suggests deeper complexities. Still, I cannot yield on this.

“Then I must respectfully disobey.” I drop to one knee, ignoring how the movement makes my muscles protest. “My comfort cannot come at the cost of yours. The floor will serve.”

“For god’s sake, get up.” Real distress colors her tone now. “Look, we’re both adults. The bed’s big enough to share if you’re so worried about me sleeping on the couch.”

The suggestion sends heat flooding my face. Share her bed? The impropriety… I shouldn’t even be alone in a room with an unmarried woman. Although her practical solution carries its own logic, I remain kneeling and my voice drops as I say, “That would be even more inappropriate, Domina .”

“Maya,” she corrects softly. “And what’s inappropriate is watching you sleeping on a hard floor when there’s a perfectly good bed available.” She runs a hand through her hair, frustration evident. “Fine. Here’s the deal—you take the bed tonight since you’re still healing. Once you’re stronger, we can revisit the sleeping arrangements.”

It’s a tactical compromise, acknowledging both my concern for her comfort and her worry for my health. Father would approve of such diplomatic navigation. Still…

“One night only,” I concede finally. “Tomorrow, we find a better solution.”

Relief floods her features. “Deal. Now please get up before you strain something.”

More mysteries to unravel. This woman who claims to own me, yet treats me with such care. Who tells me to call her by the name her father calls her. Who trains fighters yet fears for my safety. Who moves with a warrior’s grace but blushes at the thought of shared sleeping space.

The kitchen area draws my attention—familiar enough in purpose but filled with devices that might as well be magic. She demonstrates the “refrigerator,” a cold box that preserves food without ice.

“Take whatever you want.” She gestures to the “microwave,” telling me it heats food with invisible fire. “I’ll show you how to use it later.” And the mirror—there wasn’t one in the cabin—shows a reflection clearer than anything I saw in Greece or Rome. Is that man really me? I don’t know how I got here, but my image tells me I’m not the same man who set sail on the Fortuna in another part of the world.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” she says softly, watching my reaction to each new wonder. “But you’re safe here. We both are, as long as…”

She doesn’t finish, but I understand. As long as I perform as Tony expects. As long as I fight in his underground games. As long as I don’t draw too much attention or ask too many questions.

A memory rises—another time I was expected to perform, another punishment for refusing. Standing in the scorching sun, arms outstretched, buckets of sand… No. That memory belongs to another life. I need to focus on the present.

“We’ll start training properly tomorrow,” she says, pulling me from dangerous recollections. “Light exercises at first, building your strength back gradually.”

A noise from the street draws us both to the window. Tony’s men, making another pass. Domina’s shoulders tense, and without thinking, I step between her and the window. She looks up at me, surprise flickering across her pretty features before being replaced by something softer yet more dangerous.

“You should rest,” she says, stepping back quickly. “Tomorrow will be difficult enough.”

I bow slightly, maintaining proper form despite our strange circumstances. “ Gratias , Domina .”

“Maya,” she corrects softly. “Please… just Maya.”

The intimacy of the request sends heat through my chest. Another boundary crossed, another rule bent. Everything here defies my understanding—the machines, the endless items large and small that I can’t fathom, the complex web of obligations Maya seems caught in. And this? Her insistence that I break the code of a slave? Men have been killed for less.

But as I settle into the bed that still carries traces of her scent, one thing becomes clear. Whatever game Tony thinks he’s playing, whatever plans he has for using my fighting skills, he’s underestimated both Maya’s determination and my own.

The memory of the sun punishment tugs at my mind again, but I push it away. Those lessons in endurance will serve their purpose soon enough. Now, I need to put my efforts on regaining my strength, on understanding this new world, on protecting Maya from whatever threats Tony’s cold smile promised.

Sleep comes slowly, accompanied by the strange sounds of this odd world that no one in Rome could imagine—mechanical beasts prowling the streets below, the hum of fireless lights, the soft sounds of Maya moving in the other room.

Yet somehow, in this impossible place, I feel more myself than I have since Father’s death. Perhaps because, for the first time since then, I’m fighting for something more than mere survival.