Page 20 of House of Serpents and Slaves
“Marcus—”
“Don’t argue with me,” I snapped, my voice trembling with the effort it took to stay upright. My vision was starting to blur again, the heat of the fever burning through my skull. Sweat dripped down my temple, stinging my eyes, but I kept moving, dragging her with me.
The crowd’s cheers were deafening now, their bloodlust shifting to amusement as they watched us. I could hear them laughing, shouting jeers and taunts, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was getting her out of the arena, away from the chaos, away from the danger.
“Marcus, stop,” Livia said, her voice sharp and clear despite the roar of the crowd.
I ignored her, my grip tightening as I stumbled forward. My legs felt like lead, my body screaming in protest with every step.
“Marcus, you’re not well,” she said, her tone shifting to something softer, something almost gentle. “You need to stop. You’re going to—”
I didn’t hear the rest.
The world tilted suddenly, the ground surging up to meet me. My knees buckled, and I collapsed into the sand, the heat of it searing my skin. My head spun violently, and the sounds of the crowd faded into a distant roar, like waves crashing against a shore far, far away.
“Marcus!”
Her voice cut through the haze, sharp and panicked. I felt her hands on my shoulders, shaking me, but I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t even open my eyes.
The fever was too strong, the heat consuming me from the inside out. My chest heaved as I fought for air, my body trembling with the effort.
“Help!” I heard her shout, her voice frantic. “Someone, help him!”
I wanted to tell her to stop, to save her breath, but the words wouldn’t come. My mouth was dry, my tongue heavy and useless.
The last thing I felt before the darkness took me was her hand on my face, her fingers cool against my burning skin.
And then everything went black.
6
If the gods were testing my patience, they’d chosen a cruel way to do it. I’d spent the last week nursing Marcus back from the edge of death, but he was stubborn, even in his fevered delirium, thrashing against unseen enemies in his dreams and muttering commands to men who weren’t there. Most nights, he lay drenched in sweat, his body burning so hot I thought he might burst into flames. I had to fight him just to get him to drink water or keep the damp cloth pressed to his forehead. And yet, I hadn’t left him.
I told myself it was because there was no one else to do it. The other house slaves were occupied with their duties, nursing the four other gladiators who had caught the fever too. Drusus wouldn’t pay for a healer—not for slaves. Two had already died from it, and it was clear that to Drusus, the gladiators were more valuable dead on the sand than alive in bed. It was a sharp reminder of what we were worth, but I refused to let Marcus succumb to this. He was a warrior. He deserved to die in glory on the sand, not in his bed. That was what I told myself, but as I sat at his bedside that morning, carefully spooning broth into his mouth, I couldn’t ignore the truth any longer. This was more than kindness.
His fever had broken two nights ago, and though he was still weak, the color had returned to his face. His breathing was steady now, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that had become strangely comforting to me. I should have been relieved, but instead, I found myself lingering in his room longer than I needed to.
Even now, as I pressed the edge of the bowl to his lips, I couldn’t stop my gaze from wandering over him. His dark hair was growing back in patchy stubble on both his head and his face, his cheeks were hollowed, and his eyes still looked a little sunken. He looked younger like this—vulnerable, almost—but I knew better. Marcus was anything but vulnerable. Even in his weakened state, there was a strength to him that was impossible to ignore.
“Eat,” I said firmly, tilting the bowl slightly as he took another sip of the broth.
He gave me a look that was half irritation, half resignation, but he obeyed.
“I’m not an invalid, you know,” he muttered, his voice rasping like sandpaper.
“No,” I replied, arching an eyebrow. “You’re a fool. And fools who fight with fever burning through their veins end up dead in the sand.” He glared at me, though it lacked any real heat.
“And here I thought you’d say something kind, like, ‘You’re strong, Marcus, a true hero.’ But no, just insults.”
“If you wanted flattery, you should’ve picked a healer who’s nicer than me,” I shot back, smirking as I set the bowl down on the small wooden table beside his bed.
“Clearly,” he muttered, though his lips twitched with amusement. “Remind me to request someone else next time.” I crossed my arms, leaning back slightly.
“Next time, maybe don’t get yourself nearly killed in the arena while you’re half-dead with fever.” His smile grew wider, and there was a glint of humor in his tired eyes.
“Ah, there it is. The lecture. I was afraid I’d missed it.”
“Someone has to keep you in line,” I quipped. “Clearly, you’re not capable of doing it yourself.”
