Free In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal by Nasia Maksima Page A

that length was a rarity here in the desert heat of Arena, not to mention a liability in combat. Long hair could foul a helm and even provide an opponent with an easy target to grapple. It could mean a swift death, and all for the sake of vanity.
    Even Lucan, whose golden good looks were a large part of his crowd appeal, kept his hair barely at his shoulders.
    Hektor Actaeon didn’t look vain, though. Oh, he preened and posed for the screaming masses. What gladiator didn’t? Each victory brought with it fame, fortune, and a higher chance at receiving the Mercy should Viltheleon, Goddess of Luck, favor another on the scorching sands of the theatre.
    Lucan licked his lips. I’m staring. He realized it only as Hektor raised one dark eyebrow, an amused grin lilting on his full lips. Suddenly, Lucan felt heady, drunk. In Arena, the wines were strong and water was too precious a resource to waste diluting them.
    “I…was…” He faltered. “Your hair.”
    Surprise—a disturbed look—passed over Hektor’s face. His hand tightened on his cup and he put it down, the sharp crack on the wooden table making Lucan jump. Without another word, the primus palus stood and moved to the rack. He took his shield and longspear.
    Lucan hurried to his side and pulled down his own weapons. Had he said something wrong? He stole a sidelong glance at Hektor.
    The man caught him. “What about my hair?” There was a wariness in his voice.
    “It’s…long,” Lucan said, frustration rising within him.
    Surely Hektor had to realize the length was odd for a gladiator—dangerous. Then again, he was the primus palus. He defeated other men with ease and style. Why should he not be afforded every luxury? The Empress’s favored, he ate only the best food, lived in lush quarters, with teams of healers and leeches to care for his health and to massage his tired muscles. He had wine, delicacies, women brought to him—or men, if he so chose.
    Long hair would seem to be the least of these luxuries. Lucan could not help imagining that black mane loose and flowing over Hektor’s broad shoulders.
    Hektor reached back to his ponytail and tightened the thong that held it in place. His sky-blue eyes were sober. “I’ve grown it out in memory of someone… Someone dear to me.”
    “Where is he now?” It was an innocent question, but Lucan regretted it immediately.
    “Dead.” Hektor’s eyes were dim. “He’s dead.” He piled his weapons into Lucan’s arms and walked away, toward the spiraling stairwells that would lead them back to House Vulpinius.
    Lucan stood there, dumbfounded, looking at Hektor Actaeon’s back. Feeling twice a fool.
    HEKTOR STRODE AWAY, his anger festooning within him, an uncontrolled rage he had fought for so long. By the flowering Abyss! One day and the kid had already struck a nerve, carved a chink in Hektor’s impenetrable armor, and Hektor hated seeming weak. The fact that he might have twitched, might have shown a moment’s worth of true emotion, fueled his fury.
    He paused at the archway to the stairwells. Irritated, he threw a glance over his shoulder at Lucan. The boy— Why do I keep calling him that? Lucan was clearly a young man, strapping and handsome with his golden features—struggled on behind, doing a fair job of carrying the weapons Hektor had piled on him.
    He thought to turn back and help his student, but didn’t. The extra training would serve Lucan well in the arena, when it was only sheer rage and willpower that kept death at bay.
    Instead, Hektor edged his voice in threat. “And don’t drop my shield, or you’ll end up at the whipping post.”
    “Yes, sir.” Lucan’s words were laced with sarcasm.
    Unwitting, a smile twitched at Hektor’s lips, but he shut it down. He shouldn’t treat the boy so gently. He’d seen Stratos lurking about, watching his newest charge.
    Lucan was a Vulpinius now and likely a slave to the quaestor himself.
    For a moment, Hektor had even thought he’d seen the