Read In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal for Free Online Page A

cadence on the haft of the polearm.
    But the katar-fighter was no novice. Craftily, he used each beat to work his way up the polearm toward Hektor, riposte by riposte. Closer and closer.
    The lion-man circled, advancing warily, watching the way Hektor maneuvered his comrade, keeping the katar-fighter between them.
    Closer. Closer.
    Hektor waited. The right time would come. He circled, keeping the two gladiators in line, forcing them to make continual adjustments. The katar-fighter crept closer. The masses roared, impatient and bloodthirsty, the arena herald drowned out by the thunder of their jeering.
    Still, Hektor waited. Another strike, another step, his opponents growing impatient beneath the eyes of thousands, beneath the insults and spitting. Hektor shut it out. The roar became his heartbeat, the rush of the masses the blood in his veins.
    The katar-fighter was the first to break, darting into the small gap, katars flashing in the hot sun. He knocked the polearm out of position, seeking Hektor’s exposed flesh.
    Barely, Hektor evaded the slashing blades and spun around his opponent. Sinking the polearm into the ground, he pulled the dagger from his belt. His other hand found the man’s helm. He pulled back on the griffin crest, exposing the white line of throat. The other man fought only a moment and then sank to his knees.
    A quick slash. Blood poured over Hektor’s hands, and the katar-fighter fell to the sand, painting it crimson—another body for the Doomsayer’s jackals to drag away.
    Another victory for Hektor Actaeon.
    The masses screamed approval.
    The impact of a mace took Hektor to the ground. Dazed, he looked up into the golden lion helm. The man leered through the lion’s mouth as he grabbed Hektor by the hair and lifted his head.
    “She said sans mercy, but I’ll not kill you, no.” The myrmidon’s voice rattled hollowly from his helm, his laughter dark and lusty. He tapped Hektor beneath the chin with his mace. “She will do what the masses want, and when they grant you mercy, I’ll enjoy fucking the famous Hektor Actaeon in the Claim tomorrow.”
    The Victor’s Claim. Hektor gritted his teeth. This man bending him over, fucking him in the dark, dank cell. Hektor’s gaze fell to the weapon’s haft, the hot steel of the mace’s head against his throat. He’d never allow it. He grabbed the end of the weapon and shoved it back with all his might, rising to his feet, putting his weight behind it.
    The butt of the weapon smashed the myrmidon in the chest.
    The breath went out of him in a whoosh.
    In a second, Hektor was on him, knocking him to the ground, delivering one more sharp blow to his helm to daze him until the man lay struggling in the sand.
    The crowd was raucous as Hektor stood, raising his arms to embrace victory. His gaze on his fallen opponent, he took up his polearm and held it horizontally.
    The Empress had indeed said sans mercy, but he was a provocator gladiator, expected to put on a show, expected to be a bit rebellious. And he was the primus palus.
    It was his right to call for a decision.
    Still, he hated this part. The Empress’s Tribute. When the clamor grew to a fevered pitch, the masses yelling for death, for glory, for the Empress to spare the life of the fallen or order it snuffed out in the sand.
    To the sound of iron fanfare, the Empress’s praetor guard entered the arena, spears at the ready in case of uprising. The lion-man struggled to his knees in supplication. He was a gladiator. He had come here to die. Like Hektor.
    Like all of us. Like Leander…
    The memory surfaced, and Hektor shoved it down hard. The Empress was rising from her cushions, her chestnut-brown hair flowing in a high breeze. In another breath, she would make her decree. Live or die.
    The crowd rose to their feet. The chant had begun. “To the sky! To the sky!”
    Hektor watched the Empress to see which way her thumb would point. To the ground, which meant weapons down, let him live. Or to