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The sun’s heat was punishing as Deianira helped Morta train. Ostia was usually temperate – somewhere for rich Roman families to escape to – but today was the height of summer and there was no breeze flowing from the Tyrrhenian Sea. Nor was there any shade in the training area outside Morta’s house. Morta had heard the new amphitheatre in Rome had awnings to block out the sun, something she’d soon find out for herself when she went to fight in the opening games.
When she could bear the heat no more, she dropped her sword on the sand. “Enough,” she told her opponent and slave, wiping sweat from her brow. “You can pack up.”
Deianira had drops of sweat running down her sunburnt neck and wetting the top of her tunic. She grabbed the weapons. Letting them clank together, she threw them in a wooden chest and slammed the lid closed.
“Deianira…” Morta sighed at the display. “We used to be friends.”
Deianira turned and faced her with a glare. “Before you owned me.”
“Right.” Morta ran her hand through her cropped hair.
Last time Deianira the Destroyer and the great Morta had faced each other in the arena, which was almost a month ago, Morta had won. The crowd had been so pleased to have a new champion that the games master had put Deianira’s fate in Morta’s hands – to die or to become her slave. This conversation was long overdue, but it was too hot to have it outside. Morta gestured for Deianira to follow her into the house.
“Will you detest me forever?”
Now it was Deianira’s time to sigh, a weary one that came from deep within. “It could have been either one of us who won that day; we’re equally matched.”
“I got lucky. It happens,” Morta replied.
As a show of goodwill, she poured them each a cup of water, and she downed hers in one go. Deianira hesitated before taking the cup offered to her and drinking it all.
“You had to put on a show.”
“The crowd was getting bored,” Morta said, pouring herself another drink. “And the stakes were high – we were competing for the chance to fight in front of Emperor Titus. The crowd shouldn’t have been bored.”
“Oh, you fucking entertained them. You decided in the middle of the fight to bare your breasts!” Deianira threw up her hands, tossing her cup away and glaring.
“Just admit you got distracted.” Morta grinned, knowing she was doing nothing to help herself. This argument would probably end with her getting punched.
Deianira scoffed, though her fair cheeks reddened. “Anyone would get distracted by the great Morta’s breasts. It’s the choice you made as the victor that hurt me.”
Morta’s face fell. “You would have preferred death?” She ignored the way this news tugged her heart.
“I traded one master for another – one I thought was a friend. You were a slave yourself; have you already forgotten what it’s like to be owned?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Morta said.
Born in Ostia to two Illyrian slaves, she’d been brought up in a ludus, taught how to fight by her gladiator father. Only a year ago had she won her freedom. She’d chosen to keep making a living in the arena, meaning she could afford her own small house with a courtyard she’d converted into a training area. It also meant she could afford clothes, jewels, and wigs that respectable women wore. She wouldn’t trade her new life for anything.
“But I suppose it’s harder for you, being born free. I’m sorry.”
Deianira’s blue eyes widened at the acknowledgement, but she didn’t relent. “Yes, it is fucking hard for me. One day I was living my life and the next I was captured, taken far away from home and sold into slavery. Forced to speak a new language. Given a new fucking name. My life owned by someone else, and everything I had taken from me.”
Morta chuckled.
“What?” Deianira demanded. She had her hands on her hips, eyes blazing, looking every inch the angry Gaul the Romans came to watch in the arena.
“My parents had the same story. Hundreds, thousands of people have the same story. And you’re not the only one who had a new name forced upon them.” After all, Morta’s parents hadn’t given her the name of the Fate who cut the thread of life.
“I can’t believe you’d rather die than serve me,” Morta added, not hiding the hurt in her voice.
Deianira’s arms dropped to her sides. “I’m not saying you treat me badly. But I’m still your property.”
Morta had to do something. She touched her chin in thought. “I have an idea,” she said after a second. “Have you ever been to the baths? We’ll go tomorrow. I think there’s something I can offer you.”
Morta was the first to sink into the hot bath in the caldarium. She sighed as the water eased her sore muscles, and beckoned Deianira to join her.
Wary of being recognised, as they’d gone to the baths at the busiest time of day, Deianira was wearing one of Morta’s wigs, a red piece that suited her fair skin much better than Morta’s olive complexion. Morta herself wore her favourite and most expensive wig, made with black hair all the way from India.
“So,” said Deianira, keeping her voice low but not wasting any time. “Tell me about this offer.”
Morta smiled. “I’m setting the price of your freedom at 5,000 sestertii.”
Deianira’s face fell. “I’ll never fucking afford that.”
Morta lifted her index finger. “You continue to fight for me and I’ll double the cut you were getting from your old master.”
“Double?”
Morta nodded, watching Deianira’s face change as she did the mental arithmetic. A droplet of sweat fell down her neck and onto her clavicle. Morta swallowed, and tried not to think about licking it off.
“Very well,” Deianira said after a moment.
“Good.” Morta lifted her hand out of the water, and Deianira shook it. “Of course, there is the matter of what happens if I die before you earn your 5,000 sestertii.”
Deianira gulped, and dropped her hand with a splash.
“If I’m killed in the arena, you’ll have your freedom,” Morta said. “If I die any other way, you’ll be sold to the highest bidder. Call it my insurance policy.”
“What if you die by my hands in the arena?” Deianira’s teeth flashed, but Morta ignored the danger. They were in public, where a slave could never dream of striking her master.
“Apart from training, we’ll never fight each other again. It would be… dishonourable.”
“You mean you don’t want me to get the same choice you did.”
Morta shook her head. The choice she’d been given that day was unheard of – one for the history books, if historians cared about the women’s games – and she doubted such a thing would happen again.
“Deianira, I’ve truly enjoyed all the times we’ve faced each other. But a woman fighting her own slave? It’s not happening.” She stood up in the water, imagining Deianira getting a good look at her body. “I’m going to the frigidarium.”
The deal seemed to give Deianira hope, for over the next month she argued less and obeyed more. A smile or two even graced her plump lips.
They kept up a strict training regimen, as Morta needed to be at her best for Rome, and she put Deianira up for a round in the arena – an easy one, as she couldn’t afford to lose her. The crowd seemed pleased that Deianira the Destroyer had returned and was devastating her opponent, but they missed their champion. If Morta came back from Rome, Ostia would welcome her with open arms.
Her fight was getting closer. She trained harder by day, even paying a lanista to let her train with his gladiators for a week, which entertained the men to no end. By night she drank more wine and went to more parties. Wherever she went, there was someone at home waiting for her. She didn’t give it much thought, but it was… nice.
They were training one day, nothing out of the ordinary, when Deianira got the better of Morta and knocked her on her back. Morta struck back with a savage kick to Deianira’s ankle. She fell on top of Morta, winding her. But even when Morta caught her breath, neither of them moved.
They lay like that, eyes locked, hot bodies pressed together. Deianira’s eyes moved to Morta’s lips. Morta inhaled. Her heart rate was already up from the exercise, but now she was extra conscious of the thudding in her chest.
“Sorry,” Deianira murmured after an age. She got to her feet and extended a hand to Morta.
Morta didn’t quite get her concentration back for the rest of the session.
That night, Morta’s nerves about the upcoming games kept her awake. She lit a candle and wandered around the house, trying to calm herself, until she heard whimpering from Deianira’s room. The woman was crying in her sleep.
Morta crouched next to Deianira’s pallet, put the candle down, and shook her shoulder. Deianira gasped awake and scrambled to sit up. She grabbed Morta, pulling her close.
“It’s all right,” Morta whispered. “You’re safe.”
“It wasn’t me I wasn’t worried about,” Deianira whispered back.
Morta stroked her hair. “Were you worried about me?” she asked, frowning in the dark.
“Doesn’t matter.” Deianira shook her head and dropped her arms from around Morta.
“It does to me. I want to know what’s upsetting my friend.”
Deianira raised an eyebrow at the choice of words, but she explained. “I dreamed that you died in the games in Rome. They carted you off as an infamis. I didn’t get to see your body or give you proper burial.”
Morta shuddered. She’d told Deianira once that her father had died in the arena and had been buried without any coin for the ferryman. The disgrace had broken her grieving mother’s heart even more.
“That’s not going to happen,” she said in a firm voice, putting her hand on Deianira’s shoulder. She didn’t know if the promise was to herself or to Deianira.
Deianira looked away. “If it did, I’d have my freedom,” she pointed out in a low whisper.
On Morta’s last night at home, she went to a party with her rich, highborn friends. They’d never done a day’s work in their lives, but they knew how to have fun, and had promised Morta a party in her honour.
Deianira rolled her eyes and said, “Couldn’t they afford their own entertainment?”
But she helped Morta dress in a blue silk gown she’d splurged on just for the occasion, and did her makeup. Their eyes met while Deianira applied lip paint. Morta swallowed, and looked away, unable to stand her judgement.
With help, Morta put on her favourite wig and finest cloak, and left.
Hours later, she came home in high spirits. She removed her cloak and sandals and left them on the floor. Humming to herself, she strolled through the house and took note of every wall, every column, every door, hoping this wasn’t the last time she was here to see it all.
She found Deianira tidying in the office. She stood by the doorway a moment, watching as Deianira paid particular attention to her ownership papers.
“See something you like?” Morta asked, slipping inside the room.
Deianira jumped and hurried to put the papers away. Then she looked up. She stared Morta up and down, taking in the messed wig and wayward gown, which was gaping open in the front. Deianira’s eyes lingered there before she moved and closed the gap between them.
“Yes,” she said.
Their lips met in a hot, bruising kiss. Morta gasped in surprise but, holding Deianira’s hips for balance, lost herself in it. She felt hands on her breasts, and pushed into them.
When they paused for breath, Deianira shoved Morta against the desk. She had a hunger in her eyes as she gazed down at Morta, who stared back and parted her legs.
“By the gods,” Deianira whispered.
Then she fucked Morta over the desk.
They spent the rest of the night and the next morning in bed. That left the afternoon to pack everything Morta needed for Rome. It was easier said than done, as they both kept sneaking glances when the other wasn’t looking. Deianira was staying behind to mind the house and continue training by herself, and although Morta would only be gone a week, she realised she’d miss her.
When night fell, a horse and cart arrived outside the house. They packed Morta’s trunks, then retreated to the atrium to say their goodbyes.
“You better fucking come back alive,” Deianira said, holding Morta’s upper arms.
Morta touched her cheek. “Even though my death would mean your freedom?”
“I want my freedom,” Deianira said, “and I want you.” She placed a fierce kiss on Morta’s mouth, then hugged her tight.
“Kiss me again and I’ll come back to you,” Morta whispered against Deianira’s cheek.
This time the kiss was deep and passionate, until it was interrupted by a shout outside. It was time to go. Morta pulled away, reluctant, and opened the door.
“Morta,” Deianira called, and she turned. “Give them a good show. And fucking win.”
“I will.”
Morta grinned, and closed the door. Rome and Fortuna awaited.