Free A Man's Sword by W. M. Kirkland Page A

to Janus, the two-faced God, made in a temple. He’d been laughed at for offering to any god, least of all one who held little sway over war and battle. Memories of a dark-haired woman, his mother, telling him of the gods, of their powers, filled his mind like wisps of smoke. It had been Janus’s month, and something about the god who looked both forward and backward called to him. With the same instinct that told him to feint or lunge, he’d made the offering. “Find me a doorway out of this life,” he’d said. His guards, duty bound to bring him back to his lanista , a manager of gladiators, had only laughed.
    His head hurt again. The sword called to him, and he went to the display and removed it from its resting place. Cradling the sword against his chest, he lay down on the fine couch, giving little thought to his grime-covered feet and dirty loincloth. The senators liked his dirt against their finery; it made them feel important and wanted. If no one summoned him, he would recline and rest for a moment. Maybe his head would stop hurting.
    The whirring of the warm air stopped. A strange ticking came from across the room, and a gurgling from where a basin and fountain, and bottles of drink were stored. This wasn’t like any senator’s room he’d been in, and yet, he hadn’t seen the palace. Maybe he’d been called into higher circles. With a smile, he rested his head on a pillow far softer than any he’d ever used before, caught the faintest woodsy smell, and waited.
     
     
    F OOTSTEPS echoed in the room. The whirring had come and gone several times; it had been his only way to gauge the passing of time. Water, he thought, ran somewhere above him. The steps came closer now, descending the stairs he’d seen earlier. Servants were housed below, and these were not like any servant’s quarters he knew.
    Marius snapped to attention, rising off the couch and standing, sword held loosely by his side. His stomach rumbled. Maybe the senator would be kind enough to feed him.
    His breath caught at the sight of the man who’d appeared in the doorway. Marius admired the beauty of an uncovered and sculpted chest. No hair concealed the man’s muscled form, and the desire to touch such smooth skin made him curl his free hand into a fist, lest he reach out and try. Dusky nipples stood erect, clearly visible. The ripples of the man’s abdomen had to have come from long workouts; he’d seen great gladiators look worse. Clean-shaven, the man had dark hair that curled around his forehead and the nape of his neck. A few droplets of water trickled along his ear. He’d been bathed. Maybe two men would provide the entertainment tonight, though the dark-blue covering the man wore from waist to ankles was no robe or loincloth. Instead, it fitted him like a glove from muscled thighs to the bulge of his cock.
    The man looked up, his eyes as startling a blue as the fabric over his legs. “Who the hell are you?” He looked to the weapon display. Perhaps this man fought?
    He brought the sword up. “I am Cicero Marius.” And I do not know why I am here.
    “How did you get here?”
    Belatedly, Marius—he hated the name given to him by the senator who owned him—realized the man spoke in a foreign tongue, yet he’d been able to reply in the same language. This had to be the work of the gods!
    “I do not know.” Marius grew tense. Perhaps the senator had thrown them together for entertainment. The garment the man wore appeared to be too confining for fighting, though it certainly would display him well. “Where am I?”
    “My basement. How’d you get here?” The stranger pulled a small item from his pocket. “I’m calling the cops.”
    The words might be unfamiliar, but their meaning was clear. The magistrate in this area held no love of gladiators. “If you can point me back to Senator Aurelius’s villa, I will be on my way.”
    “Hell. You think you’re a gladiator, don’t you? And that’s my sword! Is this some