CHAPTER SIX: VERY BAD DAY—PART TWO.

 

 

 

Left alone with the beautiful daughter of the household, Nigel's anger faded to apprehension. It was hardly polite stare at Anita but, despite his attempts to admire the villas fine painted ceilings, he found it very difficult to do anything else.

The girl stared back, expressionless, and then raised her hand and beckoned him over with a minimal gesture of the fingers.

Nigel approached, now deliberately aiming his eyes away from her. This close, he was worried that the ass’s milk, or whatever it was, may not provide an adequate veil for her barely concealed flesh.

‘What’ve you got there?’ inquired the girl.

‘Uh?’ Nigel’s eyes involuntarily snapped onto her body. ‘Ooooh!’

The contours of the top of Anita’s breasts were clearly visible above the bathing water. Flustered as he was, Nigel could not help but muse that she was a very beautiful woman. Then he registered that she was staring impatiently at the jug in his hand.

‘Pour it in the bath, then,’ she instructed slowly, as if she was talking to a child. Nigel obeyed, kneeling down on the ledge so as not to spill it everywhere, doing his very best to keep his eyes away from her very obvious attractions. A warm liquid, with a scent reminiscent of lavender water, trickled into the bath.

The woman then lifted her hand from the water and tugged lightly at the bottom of his thin, white tunic.

‘Now, take this off.’

Nigel jumped to his feet in horror. ‘Take it off?’ he squealed, momentarily forgetting everything about the situation. ‘I've only just met you!’

‘Are you disobeying me, slave?’ asked Anita, matter-of-factly. ‘If you are, I'll call back Marcus and have you flogged.’

Nigel, not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, stood for a moment and gaped in disbelief. The girl looked at him expectantly.

With an audible sigh, Nigel flung off his tunic, thanking some deity or other that he still had his very small loin-cloth on underneath. It wasn't so bad, he supposed, with a grimace. After all, most of Nevium had now seen him practically naked! Moreover, he reasoned that stripping couldn't harm the seduction routine he was somehow supposed to ‘pull off.’

Once bereft of his outer layer, Nigel shot Anita a thin, self-conscious smile, lacking any other idea of what to do or say. To his surprise, she smiled back, as her eyes scanned him up and down.

‘What did you say your name was?’ asked the girl, in a much friendlier tone.

‘Nigel.’

‘That's an interesting name. Where do you hail from?’

‘Eng… Britain.’

‘Ugh. That cold, godforsaken hole! Ah, well!’ Her smile faded, and she resumed her straight, commanding tone. ‘I need to wash. Climb in here with me.’

Nigel, not entirely unwillingly, followed her command. Spying a natural sponge on the side of the pool, he picked it up and lowered himself into the milky water.

Before the ripples he'd caused faded, Anita reached out her hand and begun running her fingers over Nigel's chest, seemingly enjoying herself very much indeed. It crossed Nigel's mind that had he known he was going to be quite so on ‘display’, he might have spent a bit of extra time in the gym lately. Then again, that sort of spare time was usuallybest spent reading a book…

Nigel gripped the site of the pool, wondering whether he was supposed to be getting any pleasure from this. Frankly, it tickled, and he was doing his best not to giggle.

‘I'm surprised,’ cooed Anita. 'I was angry when I heard my father had indulged that fat donkey Bluthus in buying him some cheap slave that took his fancy. Now I see you, I think even I might forgive him. You really are a fine specimen. I cannot understand why you weren’t very expensive.’

‘I should have been,’ admitted Nigel, regretfully, then silently chastised himself. Worrying about his monetary value was becoming a bad habit.

Anita ignored him and pointed to the sponge. ‘Wash my back with that,’ she commanded, swirling around in the water and then peeping at him coyly over her shoulder.

Nigel picked up the sponge and began to run it over her soft skin, squeezing it so that the water trickled down her shoulders.

‘That’s good,’ she purred, glancing back at him again. She was clearly pleased, said Nigel thought this might be the moment to fulfill his mission.

He leant forward and whispered in her ear confidentially: ‘I've got a message from Agroitus.’

Anita started, splashed back down into the water, and turned around to face him.

‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.

‘Uh…’ Nigel had to choose his words carefully. ‘He wants to meet with you… tomorrow….err, yes, tomorrow night. At the place where he keeps the err…Eye?’

‘The Eye?’ said Anita suspiciously.

‘Yes,’ said Nigel hopefully. Had she a clue what he was on about? ‘Do you know where he means?’

‘Should I?’

‘He…err, wanted me to check, so you didn't get lost?’ Nigel hoped she couldn't tell just how wildly he was improvising.

‘I suppose he doesn't want me to get caught in any of his nasty traps.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ agreed Nigel, nodding over enthusiastically. Now he was getting somewhere!

‘Well, of course I know,’ she said, affronted. ‘The entrance is behind the lion’s cage, you must mind where the water sloshes, and you mustn’t touch the cat.’

‘Well done!’ said Nigel, thrilled with his success, despite the cryptic answer. That he could handle. Now all he had to do was scarper…and find Sydney.

Before Nigel had time to conceive of a polite exit, it became very clear that Anita was not in a rush to terminate their little party. Indeed, she closed the already decreasing gap between them and wrapped both her arms around his shoulders, urging him forward as if for a kiss. Almost as a reflex, his own arms enveloped her narrow waist.

With her plush lips now only inches from his own, she asked breathily: ‘What else did Agriotus send me? A kiss, perchance?’

Nigel kissed her nicely, but without passion, and then backed away. She was beautiful and sensuous, but the proximity of her tender, female curves only reinforced in him the sentiment that he had to go. He couldn’t be playing boy-toy for some spoilt patricians daughter when Sydney could be suffering, dying even.

‘I'm sorry,’ said Nigel, prying himself from her arms and easing himself up so he was sitting on the side of the pool. ‘Not that this isn't lovely… I mean, not that you're not lovely, but…I really have to leave.’ Remembering his subservience, he then added apologetically. ‘I’ve got other duties to get to: polishing, cleaning, scrubbing.’ Mustering his best semblance of jolly enthusiasm, he added: ‘I love my job. I just can’t wait to get at those dirty dishes!’

Anita looked at him, disconcertingly expressionless once again. As Nigel rose to his feet, dripping wet, she let out a piercing scream.

Nigel jumped so high at the sudden aural onslaught that he nearly fell back into the pool. ‘Damn!’ He grabbed his tunic and ran straight for the exit. Unfortunately, on reaching it, he spotted Marcus and a grandly dressed man running down the corridor towards him, worried and fierce-looking. ‘Bloody Hell!’ Nigel did a swift about-turn, but was confronted by the round old woman, who clobbered him on the side of the head with a large, iron pan.

‘Ow!’ Nigel collapsed to his knees, stars flashing in front of his eyes.

‘That slave tried to seduce me!’ wailed Anita, as the two larger men fell upon him, fists flying.

……………….

Bluthus pleaded pathetically for his former student, but to no avail. Within an hour, Nigel had been sold again, this time as a punishment, to the keeper of the gladiators. It seemed that, despite her fondness for being touched, nobody laid hands on Marcellus’ beautiful daughter and got away with it. So much for him being the good guy!

This time, Nigel knew he was truly wretched.

After the beating, which left him dazed, and bruised all over, he had been half-dragged, half-carried by Marcus, down to the amphitheatre. He had kicked and struggled a bit - what else was there left to do? - but to little avail. On arrival, another paltry amount of cash had been exchanged for him, and he was left in charge of a grizzled-looking fellow, completely bald, yet extremely lithe and muscular, like an aging sportsman.

The man, Demetrius, took hold of Nigel by his hair and prodded and pinched every muscle in his upper body. He then clamped long, heavy chains around his feet and hands and told him that from now on his life was going to be ‘nasty, brutal and short.’

Nigel bit down hard on his bottom lip. His supply of witty repartee, and even of sarcasm, had run completely dry. He was simply doing his best to retain what he had left of his dignity. His weak ankle, which Marcus had kicked, hurt like hell. He could barely stand on it, and he tried to support all of his weight on the other leg. Suppressing the pain the best he could, he concentrated on the metallic taste of the blood which clotted on a cut in his mouth.

‘Unless you prove yourself to be a warrior of remarkable ability,’ barked Demetrius, ‘which, seeing as you appear to be lame, I severely doubt, I don't think I'm going to bother wasting much time on training. The crowd likes a fight, but they also like a kill. You might be a good one for the Tigers…’

Nigel swallowed hard, but still said nothing. ‘Where was Sydney? Where – oh God, where – was Sydney?’ Now, the same line of thought ran through his head repeatedly, and each time his heart gave a stronger pang. ‘Was she dead? Probably. Had she deserted him? No…she would never do that. Would she?’

As Demetrius appeared to be finishing with him, Nigel ventured one question: ‘I came to Nevium with a woman. Tall, long dark hair, brown eyes… beautiful. Has she been brought here today?’

Demetrius snorted. ‘Maybe there was a wench brought here today. Maybe I killed her. Maybe I ravaged her! It’s all irrelevant to you: you'll never see her again.’ Nigel’s reaction was suppressed by yet another painful thwack across the back of his head.

……………………………….

Later that evening found Nigel huddled in a corner of a large, barely lit, underground room in which the arena slaves and the less well-lauded gladiators resided when they were not ‘in use.’ A few aggressive, and lecherous, shouts and grunts had been levied at Nigel as he was pushed into the chamber. However, because it had been 'feeding time' nobody had approached him. All had been engaged in fighting for their portion of the paltry leftovers and other scraps that were allotted to be shared, unequally, between them.

As Nigel had not even bothered to participate in the scrum, he was forgotten for the time being. Hampered by chains and limping as he was, he did his very best to hide.

His mind was taken off his pain and the horrific situation a little by the fascinating variety of languages and dialects that he could hear being spoken. Some of them, he did not recognize, and Nigel realised they must be long-forgotten languages, never written down, belonging to the ‘barbarians’ and other tribes whose cultures had been long lost in the mists of time. If things were any different, he lamented, this would be a wonderful opportunity. If only Sydney were here to sort things out.

Sydney. He would never see her again. As awful as the thought of being ripped limb-from-limb in the arena tomorrow was, this possibility, which now seemed a probability, was infinitely worse.

Then something really terrible happened. However hard he blinked, he could not prevent a single tear from escaping and trickling down his cheek. Lifting his hand, with a regretfully noisy clunk of the chains, he wiped it away and bit down hard again on his bottom lip. He couldn't cry! He could hear his father's voice pounding in his head:

‘Come on, Nigel. Stiff upper lip! Big boys don’t cry!’

And then Preston: ‘You really are such a cry baby, Podge. It's barely a graze.’

Nigel had learnt not to cry, at least never in company. He had hardly shed a tear at his parents’ funeral, although in private it had been different. He couldn't let himself down now. He pressed his face hard against his knees, trying to squeeze the tears away.

Suddenly, he felt a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, and a soft, deep voice with American inflections said, 'Nigel?’

Nigel looked up with a start that shook his whole body. Even in the dim light, he recognised the worried face, and the pair of twinkling eyes, that peered down at him: ‘Derek Lloyd?’

‘Yup, it’s me, buddy,’ replied Derek, with an encouraging grin. When Nigel didn't reply, Derek squinted into the dark to get a better look at the younger man. ‘I saw you arrive. Then you vanished – I’ve been searching all over. Are you okay?’

Without reply, Nigel flung both of his arms around Derek’s shoulders, as far as he could with the restrictive chains. He began to sob uncontrollably, burying his face in Derek’s shoulder. Derek, unfazed but not unmoved, hugged Nigel to him.

‘Hey. It’s okay now,’ he whispered. ‘What did they do to you? Are you hurt?’

Nigel, still convulsed with a large backlog of tears, said nothing. Derek, not pursuing his inquiries, just repeated the words, ‘it’s okay now,’ stroking Nigel’s back soothingly and letting him cry.

After a while, the tears lessened. Nigel pulled himself away as far as Derek’s protective clasp would allow. ‘I'm so sorry,’ sniffed Nigel. ‘I've made an idiot of myself…again… it's just Sydney. She’s…I think…she’s dead.’ Nigel's voice sounded so forlorn that Derek was genuinely alarmed.

‘Sydney Fox? Dead?’ Derek placed both of his hands on Nigel’s shoulders, scrutinizing his face, which he could still scarcely see in the dim light, seeking affirmation. ‘You saw her die?’

‘No…..’ conceded Nigel, his speech broken by half-suppressed sobs. ‘But that man…Demetrius…told me a woman of her description was brought here earlier, and he said he might have killed her…..’

‘Sydney? Killed by that no-good trainer? I severely doubt that, my friend.’

Nigel flopped back against the wall, letting out a long, shuddering sigh. ‘Maybe…but after everything…I daren’t hope. If she wasn’t dead…she’d have escaped…by now…she’d have found me.’

‘I cannot believe that Sydney Fox is dead,’ said Derek with a wry, humourless chuckle. ‘You're still alive, aren't you?’

‘Yes… but not for much longer. They’re going to send me out into the arena tomorrow. I'm going to be killed. I know it.’

Derek frowned. ‘It won’t be pleasant, Nigel, but we’ll survive. You’re with Derek Lloyd, now. I’ve been out there one night and an afternoon, and I overcame everything they threw at me.’

‘You’ve been in the arena?’

‘Yeah. I was seized moments after that bitch Veronica sent me back. A whole legion of these soldier guys set upon me. I hadn’t a clue where I was, or what anyone said, but I understood the Gladiator game well enough.’

‘Yes, but you’ve got ‘special ops’ training, or whatever it is. And I'm not sure I can even walk right now, let alone fight or run away.’

Derek, still crouched in front of Nigel, was concerned: ‘Why not?’

‘My ankle really hurts. I‘ve broken it a couple of times before and it took a kick today, somewhere along the line.’

‘Somewhere along the line?’ Derek began to wonder just how many beatings this boy had endured. ‘Let me have a look.’

Nigel, not without encouragement, shifted himself out of the shadows and into a dusky patch of light.

‘Ouch!’ exclaimed Derek, registering the gash on the side of Nigel’s forehead and the bruise below his lip before he even started on the rest of him. ‘Where doesn’t it hurt? I see you have not had a good day, my friend.’

‘It’s not been the best,’ conceded Nigel. ‘But at least I’ve still got all my teeth…’ He flinched as Derek slipped up the shackles and squeezed his ankle, and then quickly wiped his face, making sure he’d removed any remnants of the tears. ‘God, how humiliating,’ he muttered.

‘What is?’ asked Derek, then added. ‘I think you’re okay. It isn’t broken, just badly bruised.’

‘That’s something…oh, I mean, crying on you. Sorry. It won’t happen again.’

Derek smirked. ‘Nigel, you’ve been sold into slavery, badly beaten, told your best friend might be dead and that you’re going to die horribly. I’ve cried about much less.’

‘My father wouldn’t have said that,’ replied Nigel mournfully. ‘Ow!’

‘Sorry,’ said Derek, who had been examining the cut on Nigel’s forehead. ‘Your dad gave you all that ‘stiff upper lip’ trash, I bet? I've never understood why you Brits say that. After all, it’s the bottom lip that wobbles first, isn't it? Anyway, I've got news for you, Nigel Bailey. Real men cry. Although, you’d be even more of a tough-guy if you collected stamps.’

Nigel almost laughed, although it sounded as a half-strangled sob. He remembered Syd telling him about Derek’s unlikely hobby: ‘I suppose that makes me a real man…minus the stamps, of course.’

‘In my eyes, most definitely,’ confirmed Derek, slapping Nigel very lightly on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, I think you'll be able to pull off a fast hobble out there tomorrow. All we have to do is stick together and we’ll be fine. Haven't you seen ‘Gladiator’?’

This time Nigel did laugh. ‘Yeah. Can I be Russell Crowe?’

‘You’d be better off as his friend. You know, the guy who survives at the end? By the way, why are you chained up? They seem to only do that, when we’re locked away like this, for a special punishment.’

Nigel groaned. ‘I am being punished. I seduced my master's daughter… well, not that I got much of a chance. I think she did most of the seducing! I was trying to get information to help find that bloody relic for Veronica, to get us home.’

Derek smirked. ‘Seduced the master's daughter, eh? You are a stud, Nigel. Was she a babe?’

‘Not bad…’ conceded Nigel. ‘She was no Sydney, though.’ The thought of Sydney brought Nigel back down to earth after his brief moment of relative mirth. He pushed a hand nervously through his hair. ‘Oh God, what if they’ve hurt her, Derek?’

It was Derek's turn to groan, as he settled himself against the wall next to Nigel. ‘Will you stop harping on about Sydney Fox? She is quite capable of taking care of herself. If I were you, I'd be angry she got me into such a mess…again!’ His tone was still good-natured.

‘She's not the only one who's ever got me into bad situations,’ retaliated Nigel. ‘You kidnapped me, remember?’

Derek snorted. ‘Yeah, I do recall. We had fun after a few beers, though, didn't we?’

‘I think you're dodging the issue here, Derek. You knocked me off my bike.’

‘You were cycling erratically.’

‘What did you expect? I had a ruddy great Mercedes bearing down on me!’

Derek grinned, leaving Nigel unsure whether the Special Agent had conceded defeat, or not. However, Nigel found he no longer had the energy to pursue the debate. Yawning, he muttered: ‘I’m so tired.’

‘Sleep, then,’ suggested Derek.

‘I'm not sure I could,’ murmured Nigel, his weary countenance conveying a different message. ‘It's so cold and damp down here.’

Derek said nothing but shuffled a couple of inches closer, so the edge of their arms just touched. Nigel, now shivering, stilled himself for a moment, sensing the awkwardness of the situation. Then another wave of sleepiness hit him. Almost unconsciously, he snuggled in close, laying his head on Derek’s shoulder, as the other man’s arm slipped around him. Within minutes, feeling surprisingly warm and safe, he was asleep.

 

Continue to chapter 7